The Mixed Tape
by casket4mytears
Summary: "Every couple has a song." Hot Blooded has been their song for seven years, but Seeley Booth has an extensive music collection. What other high notes has their relationship hit along the way? Not songfic per se. Spoilers through 8X15, canon pairings/true to canon. Most chapters rated T, but rated M for a lotta booze, a little language, a dash of violence and a touch of sexuality.
1. Prologue: Every couple has a song

_**Normally, I like to explain my premise upfront, but I feel to do so would spoil the prologue. Please stay tuned for the end notes, where this new experiment becomes clearer.**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Bones, nor has HH called me for a job yet. Pity. I do this out of love. Title of the fic derived from the song "The Mixed Tape" by Jack's Mannequin. Dialogue borrowed from episodes for context; no infringement intended.  
**_

* * *

_2010_

Another case, another murderer locked up and awaiting a bail hearing with Caroline chomping at the bit. Some things never changed in his life, and for that, Booth was grateful. Glancing quickly at his beautiful partner, his heart ached. _And some things never change that you would give anything for them to do so_.

Catherine was wonderful: beautiful, intelligent, considerate and a great kisser, among other skills. But a nagging thought in the back of his head kept him awake at night, long after he'd politely booted Catherine from his bed. _You're just dating her because she's like Bones_, he'd think, only to counter with lists of evidence that he was not that sort of callous bastard.

Besides, she wasn't entirely like his partner. She knew pop culture, which should have been a welcome difference, except he missed explaining his jokes to someone, which was ridiculous. She also had... _questionable_ taste in ties. His ties were about more than novelty or quirks; each was a personal statement about the man behind the badge and tailored suit uniform of the job.

His distraction had lent a sort of autopilot nature to their conversation tonight, which had worked out well between mouthfuls of beer. But then, she dropped a bomb on him.

"Last night, Andrew gave me a CD with music he likes."

_That smug, slimy, dorky son of a bitch!_ _He's going to go all John Hughes on my woman?_ Immediately, he rebuked himself: she wasn't his woman, not for lack of trying. He'd _tried_. Tried at the behest of a teenager with a Psychology degree who stared at them like a couple in some dorky TV show he worshipped. Yeah, Sweets probably watched re-runs of _Moonlighting_ or some other bullshit show with an improbable couple, masturbating while crying tears of joy.

And why did he care? He'd moved on, right?

"Mix tape? Hmmph. Talk about a social contract." He took another swig of his beer, willing himself to sound like less of a jealous asshole.

"That's what I surmised."

"Hmm."

So she wasn't unaware of the implications. Of course, this would be an aspect of pop culture she'd comprehend, wouldn't it? Just his goddamn luck. Why was he so angry? He had Catherine. He'd moved on, just as he'd said he would. _I need scotch_, he decided suddenly. Beer wasn't going to cut it.

Because he was fast realizing he had certainly not begun moving on. Not at all.

"Our partnership is still important to me."

Again, he took a figurative shot to the gut, but in a good way. He nodded slightly, indicating he'd heard what was a sincere and kind statement. _Nope, cancel that 'moving on' status._ He was deep in the murky blue waters of "the hell known as being in love with Temperance Brennan" and he was happy to drown.

"You know that, right?" she continued, worry lines beginning to form around her eyes, those mesmerizing blues he loved getting lost in.

_Fuck Andrew Hacker_, he thought. _Screw this moving on crap_. With the courage born of hops, he reassured her.

"Sure. Yeah. You die for your partner. That's the way I look at it."

A half-smile, barely there and gone again. The woman tucked neatly behind the scientist once more. For a moment, Booth felt guilty. Had that been a pressuring statement? Was it too much? _No, it's just the truth_, he told himself. He'd taken a bullet for her, willing to die in her place. She'd moved heaven and earth, so to speak, saving his life on more than one occasion. If she couldn't hear the truth, that was her problem.

Breaking the silence, she threw out a fact that almost made him fall off his stool. "I liked Andrew's taste in music, except for a band called Led Zeppelin."

He watched her take a drink, as casually as if she'd pointed out that the sky was blue. "Except for a band called Led Zeppelin?" He was incredulous.

"Yes."

_Yes_? No explanation, no description of a head trauma to blame her statement away with. Booth was not having this. She had to be confused!

"What do you mean? Led Zeppelin is like, the best rock and roll band ever! They had a reunion tour in '07 in London. I would have _killed_ for those tickets."

Bones then proceeded to stick the knife in his rocker heart and give it a twist. "Really? My publisher offered me tickets but when I heard 'zeppelin' I thought it was for some sort of air show."

"Air show – you turned down what probably was the last concert Led Zeppelin would ever play?"

"Are you going to kill me?"

No, he wasn't, although he did feel compelled to strap her into a chair and play their entire discography to educate her. "You're unbelievable!"

"It's just a band, Booth."

Just a band... Did no band ever captivate her? Had she really never connected with the power of music? Had she never heard a song and felt utterly understood by a stranger? The more he thought about it as the night went on, the sadder it made him. One of his few saving graces during his teens was his extensive collection of vinyl. When the memories overwhelmed him and the rage swelled within, he'd blast Social Distortion or The Clash, whatever captured the anger best. During his first stint with the Army, he'd kept himself sane with Springsteen and whatever good shit he could dig up in his squadron's stash. Music was _life_, boiled down to chords and words that could say so much in so little time.

Admittedly, he was drunk by the time he got home, but he was strangely awake, ruminating on his conversation with his partner. I mean, hell, they had a song! "Hot Blooded" was _their song_. He grinned as he recalled her rocking the guitar (pretty poorly) and singing along (not the best vocals she'd ever done). For a few minutes, it was as if nothing had changed between them. It was amazing. _Music_ gave him those treasured minutes.

Flipping the channels, he stumbled on John Cusack's face and froze. _Hacker_. What was the idiot gonna do next, show up at her apartment with a boom box? Would she even get the reference? Wait... Oh, he knew this movie. _High Fidelity_. God, this guy could be him, what with their equally horrible track records in relationships. _I've never cheated, though_, he reminded himself. It was just... No. You didn't cheat. Ever. This was the end, though, which was a shame since Booth suddenly felt like wallowing straight through 'til morning. As Cusack cued up his stereo, Booth glanced over at his.

How had he not thought of it sooner?

"You understand the conventions of mix tapes, Bones? I'll show you a mix tape."

And thus began a project spanning nearly three years...

* * *

_2012_

He tapped his foot impatiently as the device synced, humming to himself. Downstairs, he could hear his daughter giggling about something and for a moment, he was struck with sadness over their most recent case. He couldn't begin to fathom how he'd cope with the loss of his family. A summer apart had nearly destroyed him; death and its permanence... He shook himself, drawing a deep breath. This wasn't the time. This was about not taking a single moment for granted in life.

_Sync is complete. OK to disconnect_.

Unplugging the device and snatching up the tangle of cords beside it, he headed downstairs with just a little bounce in his step. How many times had he considered giving her this? How many times had the mood and tracks shifted over the years? So many reasons to hesitate, so many delays. Flimsy excuses now, given his renewed appreciation of all he had to live for. Like the beautiful woman in the kitchen they shared for example, who was currently wiggling her fingers in her silly and loving way.

"Phalanges! Dancing phalanges!" she cooed to Christine, who seemed torn between soiling her diaper and laughing with mom. He couldn't help but chuckle, which alerted her to his return. "Do you think it's too soon to learn the periodic table of elements?"

Wiggling his fingers at Christine as he passed, Booth replied, "What, for you or Christine?"

He was nervous. It crashed over him like a wave and suddenly, this seemed like a terrible idea. Poor timing. Not the right mood. Should he have burned a CD instead? Calling the playlist up on the screen, he listened as the woman he loved rattled off what he was surprised to recognize as the first few elements. _Just do it!_

He whistled for her attention, and got it.

"What is that?"

"_This_ is your mix tape," he explained.

The surprised smile on her face dispelled all remaining anxiety. "You made me a mix tape?"

"Mmhmm. You know what? You're right: I am the romantic one."

He handed her a set of ear buds, now eager for her to hear his handiwork. _That only took years to complete_. Better late than never, right?

"I find I think that is very sweet!" And she did: she was truly touched by the gesture.

"Well, it starts with our song," he added, nestling buds into his own ears.

"What, we have a song?"

And this was why he'd begun this mix in the first place: to connect that big, generous heart of hers to music as a new language. One that he spoke fluently.

"Every couple has a song," he playfully admonished her, hitting play. "Wait for it..."

The familiar melody began and Temperance Brennan was grinning, just like the first night they'd shared it in her living room. With a laugh, she began to sing, dancing Christine right along with her. He added an air guitar flourish as he joined her, although it was soon abandoned to rescue their daughter from impending whiplash. But that was okay, because the pure _joy_ on the face of the woman he loved so wholeheartedly was worth any price he could possibly pay.

He would still die for her, kill for her, do anything for her.

"What else is on here?" she asked him impatiently.

"Nuh uh, you're just going to have to listen and find out!" His nose wrinkled in understanding. "And Christine has decided to be a literal party pooper. Be back, Mom!"

Glancing back over his shoulder, he watched as she twirled and danced in the kitchen, completely uninhibited. Free. The way the light reflected off of her hair, the mischievous gleam in her eye... it was magic. He was still grinning like an idiot, even while changing what had to be one of the most disgusting diapers any child had ever produced in the history of mankind.

He couldn't wait for her to hear the rest of his messages for her...

* * *

_**It is a dangerous thing, Hart Hanson, to bring up the words "mix tape" in connection with a couple I ship to the bitter end. You see, I am a music addict/blogger beyond the walls of fandom. I think in tune. Lyrics are my language. **_

_**Needless to say, when I saw the kitchen clip a few days ago from "The Ghost In The Machine", I died of squee and immediately wondered: what else is on that mix tape? Later on, in re-watching "The Rocker In The Rinse Cycle", my memory was jogged by the whole Hacker mix tape discussion. It occurred to me then: given repeated allusions to Booth's connection to music, how had he not made her a mix tape before? Further, given that his boss – someone Booth considered as a lesser in the FBI – had made her a mix tape first, how had heartbroken Booth NOT made one in season five to one-up him?**_

_**And then, it hit me: who says he didn't?**_

_**Granted, I had to wait until the episode aired to ensure he hadn't made her some previous mix or spoken of it, but I immediately decided that the man who associated a song with the two of them in spite of being blown up while it played had probably connected other tunes to one Temperance Brennan. **_

_**What's to come? Vignettes and one-shots, all connected to songs on Booth's evolving mix tape for Brennan. Some songs will not remain on the final mix delivered in 2012 (you'll see why). They will not be in chronological order, let alone playlist order. They will be in keeping with Booth's "style" (so no sweet love ballads, no matter how perfect, that I wouldn't expect Booth to know). Each chapter will be slanted to Booth's POV (challenging for me). Some may offer new insights into the past, while others shed light on moments we never saw. I may just get all smutty up in here.**_

_**Subscribe to alerts, sit back, and get ready for a musical journey through the history of our couple, with a hint of interaction from you, the readers. It will be an epic ride.**_


	2. A Girl Like You

_**AN: And it begins... right back at the beginning... and while yes, I could have started with Hot Blooded, that would have been too easy. We'll get to it eventually.  
**_

_**Tag To: Pilot; The Parts In The Sum Of The Whole**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Bones or Edwyn Collins' infectious tune, "A Girl Like You". Dialogue is used for context; no infringement is intended.  
**_

* * *

**A Girl Like You (Edwyn Collins)  
**

When thinking back years later, on a lonely night in the desert, it strikes Booth that Cam has played a crucial role in the course of his relationship with Temperance Brennan. The line he'd drawn – the stupid, goddamn line she'd indirectly thrown back at him years later in front of the Hoover – grew out of the searing guilt in his gut over her brush with death at his impatient behest. That relationship had unsettled their dynamic for months, with Booth yanked in two separate directions by two equally stubborn and intelligent women. And yet, he is grateful for Cam's arrival at the Jeffersonian in the end.

After all, Cam was, strangely, the reason they met.

Cocky, egotistical Seeley Booth had "happened" to run into his long-time friend Camille Saroyan in an elevator on a rare appearance in D.C. and had promptly flapped the butterfly wings that would bring on a hurricane. But back then, in 2004, Booth had no idea what was in store for him. He had a simple directive: nail Judge Hasty for Gemma Arrington's murder. But the best laid plans...

* * *

"I could get you Gemma's file, but you know the definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over, expecting a different outcome."

Maybe it was the haze of the previous night's recreation. Maybe it was Camille being intentionally vague just to piss him off. Whatever the cause, the effect remained the same: he had no idea what the hell she was talking about.

"Okay, maybe I missed something?"

That damn little smirk said it all: intentionally vague the first time. "How's about you get another point of view?"

_Oh hell no_. "Partner up? No, you know that I don't do that."

"There's a forensic anthropologist at the Jeffersonian," Cam continued, somehow missing the memo on his strict refusal to work in tandem with another Agent, let alone _Squint_. "I've read that she solved how a Stone Age hunter was murdered."

This was not helping the whiskey headache throbbing in his temple. "How does that help?"

"If she can solve a 4000 year-old homicide, maybe she can help on Gemma Arrington. I could release the remains to her."

Damn her and her "_I know more than you!_" tone. Because the truth is, she is smarter than him when it comes to the scientific end of investigations. Her offer to release the remains, should he take her advice and hire the Caveman Coroner, was tempting. But his ego happened to be in full control this morning, having spent the night hours sharking some stooge out of his cash.

"You know, Cam, I'll catch up with you later. Forensics don't solve crimes, cops do."

"Same activity, same results," she reminded him.

He'd only just managed to turn away when she called his bluff.

"Speaking of which, you look like you've been up all night."

_Note to self: Cam's never been fooled by you and never will be_. He gritted his teeth in anticipation of another lecture on his gambling habits. Addiction? Habits? They often debated that sticking point. There were worse vices, as far as he was concerned. He could be shooting up, snorting powder or drinking himself to death.

"I'm fine," he told her, and half-believed it.

With a knowing smile, she replied, "Meaning you won?"

She wasn't wrong. Didn't make it any less infuriating. He brushed her off, not exactly comfortable with an unsavoury discussion of his activities outside of work while smack in the middle of the gossip hub of the Bureau. Her eyes said everything, though: she was worried. And as she stepped into that elevator, his guilt, coupled with a desperate need to give Gemma Arrington her long overdue justice, booted his ego to the back of his skull. He ran to catch the elevator, thrusting his hand between the doors and praying the motion sensors were actually working today.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey – what's that scientist's name?"

With a victorious smile, she replied, "Temperance Brennan."

It was a memorable name all on its own. But when, after a few phone calls and a little background investigation, he located the woman behind the moniker, he committed it to memory for other reasons.

* * *

_"I've never known a girl like you before  
Now just like in a song from days of yore  
Here you come a-knockin', knockin' on my door  
And I've never met a girl like you before..."_

Total sexist asshole thought, as he entered the lecture hall: _What's a beautiful woman like her doing lecturing in front of... is that a corpse covered in bugs?_

It seemed absolutely illogical, like those Hollywood commercial crap films where some busty blonde who could barely pronounce the terminology in her lines was cast as the world's most brilliant scientist. Booth was not adverse to a gorgeous blonde, but the kitten heels and low-cut blouse seemed ridiculous. To her credit, Dr. Temperance Brennan, pride of the Jeffersonian Institute, was dressed more professionally than a film cliché. She was, however, devastatingly beautiful. That beauty was only enhanced by the ease with which she instructed her class. She made the removal of flesh from bones _sexy_, not through her looks, but her brain.

"Any questions?" she asked suddenly.

Unfortunately for him, Cocky Cop On The Prowl Booth took over his mouth and made him into a smart ass.

"Yeah, I have a question. Seems to me, if you uh, remove the flesh, aren't you, uh, destroying the evidence?"

She almost seemed amused by the inquiry. "On the contrary, I am revealing evidence."

He felt a little starstruck in her presence, which made him all the more determined to win her over. As she dismissed her class, Booth made his way up the centre aisle of the lecture hall, debating the next move. Outright request for assistance? Order her to comply with a government mandate? Somehow, he knew she enjoyed a challenge.

"Just one more thing," he began his fresh verbal joust. "I mean, isn't all the good evidence in the flesh? You know, like the poison and the stab wounds and the bullets?"

He had her attention – and, to a degree, her pity. "All of the important indicators are written in the bone, if you look carefully."

The implication was clear: _if I pulled my head from my ass, I would be able to follow along with teacher_.

"So that's your thing?"

"Yes," she answered, continuing to gather her things. "I'm the best in the world."

He almost laughed, taking this as a way to lighten things. But then, Booth caught her expression and realized she wasn't exaggerating. She truly believed she was the best forensic anthropologist in the world. Wow.

"Oh. Okay, you're serious." He was fumbling now, because Temperance Brennan was unlike anyone he'd ever come across – and in his line of work, he'd met at least five of every kind, so to speak.

"Are you a student here?" she asked, suddenly alerted to the fact that he knew not a goddamn thing about anthropology.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth from the FBI."

And then, it clicked, somewhere inside Booth's skull: _she's going to help you._ He couldn't explain why; he simply knew that he'd been meant to collide with Cam in the elevator, just as she was meant to read that article about some Ice Man's ancient murder.

"I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian Institute," she said, shaking his hand.

Electricity crackled in that contact and Booth dug in his heels to resist the urge to stumble.

"Do you believe in fate?" he asked, mesmerized.

"Absolutely not. Ludicrous," she scoffed.

Booth was in deep trouble.

* * *

He managed to buy himself some time to rein in the fifteen year-old idiot version of himself that desperately wanted to make out with the lovely doctor. With a quick call to Cam, the remains of Gemma Arrington were on their way to the Jeffersonian. In between picking his jaw up off the ground and eating the crow Cam served, he managed to determine a means of testing the skills of Dr. Brennan. Sure, she was great with ancient bodies no one could argue the facts about. But could she really see as much as she claimed in the bones?

He lied: he told her the FBI had no clue who the victim was, time of death, nothing. She needed a name. Dr. Brennan took this in stride. He expected reasonable efforts – race, gender, maybe an appropriate age range. What he didn't expect was Temperance walking briskly up to his desk and reciting an entire biography.

"Your victim was 16 years old, biracial. She died between three and four years ago and her body was left in a landfill for approximately one year. She was born in Southern Alabama, but moved north when she was eight years old. She was injured in a pre-1998 automobile – no airbags – when she was 13."

"What? Wow!

"I'm not done."

Booth shut up. _How the hell did she know what kind of car she was injured in, or where she lived? _How could a skeleton show that?

"Judging by her ribcage and diaphragm attachments, she was either a swimmer, singer or an asthmatic, or any combination thereof," she continued.

She then proceeded to both amaze and horrify him by pulling out a sketchpad and a _human skull_ from her bag. She flipped to a pencil drawing and held them side by side as she continued to speak.

"This preliminary sketch gives you a general idea of what she looks like. I'm sorry, but we've been unable to find out her name."

This last statement was loaded with emotion. Frustration, maybe. But the sketch... It was bang-on. He wanted to believe that Cam had screwed with him by giving her a photo, but the anthropologist was so utterly sincere, he knew better.

She really was the best in the world. She also had no clue when it came to the appropriate handling of evidence.

"Just for future reference, those human remains are forensic evidence. You should be wearing gloves."

Duly rebuked, she drew a breath to steady herself. "I will adjust my behaviour accordingly."

It was time to admit the deception. Booth invited her to a conference room, where he popped in a videotape he'd watched countless times: Gemma Arrington, performing. Her voice haunted his dreams these days, demanding he bring her peace.

He could have shown a photo and continued, but Booth wanted Temperance to see the vitality and passion of this young woman, struck down far too early in life. She watched intently, her reaction difficult to read. When she put it together – that he had intentionally held back the victim's name – she seemed to take it in stride, although for a moment, she seemed hurt by his lack of faith in her abilities. For some reason, he felt terrible for what had seemed reasonable at the time.

But Booth didn't have time to sulk. He had a mission, one that he hoped Temperance would join him on.

"I wanna catch the bastard who killed her."

"Well how do you know he was a bastard? How do you even know it was a man?"

He couldn't figure her out. He'd picked up rather quickly that common slang went straight over her head and tried to keep things straight-up. But just when he'd think he had figured her brain out, she'd throw another curve ball. She was so literal. It was equal parts frustrating and charming.

Booth pulled a photo from the case file, figuring this was a better approach. "I guess you know who that is, right?"

"No."

Flabbergasted, he explained,"Judge Myles Hasty. That's a Federal Judge."

Without missing a beat, she settled into her chair and shrugged the disbelief off. "Well, I don't follow current events past the Industrial Revolution."

And to her, that made perfect sense.

"He killed Gemma."

"But why haven't you arrested him?"

"Well, I don't have proof," he admitted reluctantly.

Her eyes twinkled in that way he'd come to recognize as her "argument" look. "Then how do you know it's him?"

"I just know. And I would like to ask you to help me catch him."

"I won't do that!"

Booth was stunned. _I thought she wanted to help with this investigation_. Didn't she want justice for Gemma? Had he misjudged her?

"Why?"

"Well, I will help you find out the truth, and if the truth is he killed her, I will help you catch him. But first the truth, and then the catching."

Okay, it wasn't necessarily a bad offer on the table. It just sounded like one that took a lot of time and he really didn't have that. His superiors were on his ass daily.

So he tried charming her. "Look, all I need is the kind of crap that persuades a jury."

"Seems to me that someone like you could benefit hugely from an association with someone like me."

"Oh. Alright." He began laughing at her overly business tone but quickly stopped, because she was _not kidding_ and possibly about to clock him.

"Oh, you're being serious. You're serious. I was just kidding! You know, just having some fun," he covered.

_Please buy it. Please don't walk out of here. _

"It is fun," she decided, a small smile creeping across her lips.

And in the next minute, Booth found himself shifting uncomfortably under the desk and fighting the urge to kiss those delicate lips of her. _I am so very fucked_.

* * *

_"You give me just a taste, so I want more  
Now my hands are bleeding and my knees are raw  
'Cause now you've got me  
Crawlin' crawlin' on the floor  
And I've never known a girl like you before..."_

The flirting began in earnest, which in hindsight was fucking stupid, given that the FBI had a rather strict policy on sleeping with colleagues. But it was impossible to resist. There was an innocence about her, like that of an excited child. It was a refreshing change of pace from the jaded women Booth met in bars. Even her butchered colloquialisms became endearing.

"Can I come in and watch you broil the suspect?" she asked excitedly when Gemma's boyfriend was brought back in.

"Yeah, well you know, I could broil him, but I think you mean grill," he replied, grinning.

(For the next year, he silently referred to every interrogation as "broiling the suspect".)

She had a way of complimenting him while also daring him to evolve. During a tour of the performance venue where Gemma had last been seen, they got into a weird debate where his affectionately calling her "Bones" led to a counter name of "Shoes". But then, her anthropologist self slipped into the conversation.

"Well, anthropologically speaking, para-militaristic organizations tend to constrain individuality."

"That's for sure!"

"But in any group, no matter how restrictive, the free thinkers, the mavericks, the rebels with leadership qualities find a way to declare their distinctiveness," she added, glancing sideways at the agent.

She saw _him_ as a maverick, a leader. It had been a long time since anyone had thought of him as powerful in any way, self included. Oh sure, he talked excellent smack when it came to a wager, but any guy in those dives could tell you it was all bullshit. They were all self-deprecating and lonely men.

Minutes later, she mentioned the prospect of dating some nerd and Booth felt the urge to find the guy and hit him. He wasn't worthy of her; he could tell by how casually she mentioned him.

"I'd ask you out if I could," his big mouth told her.

"Why can't you?"

"Well, FBI rules again. No fraternizing with other agents, or consultants."

"That's too bad."

Booth fought the urge to pump a fist in the air. "Glad you think so," he demurred.

And just when he thought he couldn't be more hung up on the woman if he tried, she clocked Judge Hasty. Two shots, straight to the nose. Booth wanted to ask her out right there, rules be damned. This smug bastard had gotten away with murder for _years_. Sure, they were getting closer to nailing his ass to the wall, but for now? It was sweet justice to watch him stumble.

"Is this very bad?" she asked nervously.

* * *

_"You've made me acknowledge the devil in me  
I hope to God I'm talkin' metaphorically  
I hope that I'm talkin' allegorically  
Know that I'm talkin' about the way I feel_

_And I've never known a girl like you before_  
_Never, never, never, never_  
_Never known a girl like you before..."_

Firing people was shitty business. Usually, you were doing someone else's dirty work, taking the brunt of someone's anger/disappointment/panic. Even if someone deserved to get a boot up their ass, it was still unpleasant.

Being asked to fire the Jeffersonian – and by extension, Bones – was hell. So Booth went with the tried and true solution to most of his problems: he took her out to get drunk. He expected her disappointment. He did not expect her ridiculous tolerance for tequila, nor did he expect the words she uttered in a low, sultry tone.

"If we don't work together any more, we could have sex."

Instant hard-on. "I'll call a cab!" Hell, he'd hijack a cab!

Maybe there was a silver lining to this firing. Maybe this, too, was fate. After all, if she was no longer a colleague, there was an opportunity for them to be... he didn't know. What he did know was that this couldn't be a one night stand. It could, and that would be better than nothing, but Booth was hooked on this woman. She pissed him off, challenged him at every turn, and made him grin like an idiot at the thought of her each morning (and every evening in the shower these days, fist closed tightly around the perpetual hard-on she gave him).

And then, reality knocked and reminded him that he was a loser who barely saw his kid because of a not-so-small issue with gambling half his paychecks away, and he hesitated. _I can't mislead her. I can't have her, only for her to leave when she sees the real me._

"Hold on, hold on, listen. Hold that cab!" Swallowing hard, he steeled his resolve. "Listen, I got something to confess."

"What? Is it the fact that you're a direct descendant of John Wilkes Booth? I already know that."

Again, it's one of those "did she just say that?" moments. Booth never told _anyone_ about that rather unfortunate leaf on the family tree. It made it awkward when he told people Lincoln was his favourite president.

"Wait, wait a second. How do you know that?"

"From your bone structure."

"Just... just keep that under your hat, okay? For now, okay?"

"Right."

She'd thrown him off track and that cabbie looked mighty impatient _and my God, I want to kiss her._ But he had to tell her.

"What I wanted to confess was... See, I have a gambling problem. But I'm dealing with it."

It's half a lie: _I will deal with it now. For her_.

"Why did you feel you had to tell me that?"

"I don't know. I just feel like um, this is going somewhere."

"Why do you feel this is going somewhere?" She asked, but she already knew, and her body shifted closer to his.

"Oh, I just... I feel like I'm going to kiss you."

And he did. He kissed Temperance Brennan, world-renowned forensic anthropologist, judge-punching bad-ass, and enthralling woman. It was even better than he'd imagined (and he'd clocked a lot of time with that image in the shower lately). Her lips were soft beyond belief, but her kiss was as intense as her dedication to her work. When she pulled away, Booth felt scalding hot in spite of the rain pouring over them. _This is going somewhere_.

"Wow!"

Apparently, he was alone in that opinion, because Temperance Brennan headed for the cab and announced that they were not spending the night together. It took a minute for the blood to return to his brain from his groin and demand a reason.

"Tequila," she replied simply, and prepared to leave.

"Hey!

He ran for the cab, legs wobbly from the booze, to make one last attempt to sway her, to convince her of this intense need he felt for her. But then, his mouth got cocky and ruined it all.

"Hold - hold that cab. Hold that cab! Hey, so you afraid that when I look at you in the morning I'll have regrets?"

"That would never happen," she stated, and it is a fact he can't deny.

Booth watched her pull away and realized that he just was not worthy of her. It was the plain truth: _she saw through me somehow, knew I was a guy with a lousy temper and a bitter view of the world_. A guy who, on any other night, would walk back into the bar and hit the pool tables until closing time.

_But what if I could change? What if I could be enough for her? _

_I know she feels the pull between us. The chemistry is there. It's the logic that's in the way somehow_. In her amazing brain, she'd calculated the risk of being with him and decided he's more trouble than he's worth.

_I never should have told her about my gambling problem. Yep, that did it._

It struck him then that for all of the so-called winning, he's losing. Losing time with Parker. Losing sleep and perhaps his sanity. And now, now he was losing Bones.

With one last wistful look at the neon lights, Booth forced himself to turn away and hail a cab for home.

* * *

The kid wasn't wrong: _I am immensely stupid._

_I never should have listened to Caroline. I should have held my ground and kept Bones on staff. I never should have hit on her, told her of my gambling or put myself out there. _Caroline could kiss his ass – not that he had the balls to tell her so.

She wanted him to hire Bones back. As if it were that simple. She didn't have a goddamn clue.

The spell was broken between them now. He'd hurt her, and it showed in every heated exchange between them.

"I find that I'm annoyed with you."

"Why, because I fired and hired you back? It's the Federal Government."

"No. Because you got me drunk to fire me and then have sex with me."

She was right, sort of. But no, hungover, blue-balled Seeley Booth couldn't admit it.

"Oh no, I got myself drunk so I could fire you. And you decided not to have sex with me which I accepted, gracefully. So you regretting that decision?"

"No. I'm not. It was a very good decision. I stand by it."

They had an audience now, including one pissed off Federal Judge and his pricey douchebag lawyer. There had to be a way to bring a smile back to her face.

"What's going on, Bones?" he asked lightly.

"Do not call me Bones!"

Yeah, she hated him now. Fucking Caroline. _Next time, this maverick tells her to shove it_.

Not even nailing that drug-snorting judge was enough to smooth things over between the two of them. The bickering continued, tiny little punches and jabs in wordy packages, until it reached its peak a few days later. He'd invited Gemma's mother in to answer her questions about the trial and how things would proceed. Bones insisted on being there, and he wanted her around whenever he could find the excuse, even if she drove him insane. Halfway through the discussion, her talent for brutal honesty reared its ugly head.

"The evidence is conclusive, but not nearly as strong as it ought to be. With a good lawyer –"

Booth had heard enough. She wasn't wrong, but there were some things you just didn't tell the mother of a murder victim. His nerves frayed, he made the biggest mistake he could possibly manage: he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out of the room to – _I don't know. Did I think I could scold her __like a child?_

"Let go of me!" she yelled.

"Alright, I will, if you would just –"

The left side of his face lit up like the Fourth of July as her hand connected sharply with his cheek.

"Ow! What the hell?"

"You are a bully! You grabbed my arm just like the judge. You use your badge and your gun to intimidate people!"

He saw red. Angry, screwed up Seeley Booth had entered the building.

"Really? The way you use your brain to make people around you feel stupid?"

"Well, you are a stupid man!" she snapped. "I _hate_ you!"

"Oh, you hate me? What are you, ten years old? I'm not your dad!"

Something in that short sentence struck deep. Her body tensed and her eyes clouded over. Hurricane Temperance, coming inland. And in that moment, he knew he'd gone too far.

"I will _never_ work with you again!"

"Who asked you?"

He held his cheek as he watched her flee, heart racing. _I would have asked_.

He did ask, many times. The kid who'd (accurately) called him stupid took great joy in deflecting many phone calls to the Jeffersonian. Emails went unanswered, in spite of apologies. He even mentioned his meetings, as evidence that he was trying to be a better man. Silence.

He did have her words to console him several months later. Apparently, being the best forensic anthropologist in the world wasn't enough for her, so she wrote a novel: _Bred In The Bone_. He was not an avid reader, but Booth devoured the book in the first weekend, unable to resist following the adventures of Bones – er, Kathy, and a cocky bastard of an FBI Agent named Andy Lister. She nailed the reality of crime investigation without making it dull, and even the bone babble was interesting.

Temperance Brennan: anthropologist, bestselling author and stubborn as hell. He missed her.

* * *

_"This old town's changed so much  
Don't feel that I belong  
Too many protest singers, not enough protest songs  
And now you've come along, yes, you've come along  
And I never met a girl like you before..."_

_2005_

On the day the call came in about a body in Arlington National Cemetery that didn't belong, Booth had a lucky break: her assistant was off sick. Unfortunately, he couldn't reach Bones either, because she was identifying victims of genocide abroad – or was, according to her boss, Dr. Goodman. A kind yet firm man, he did note that her flight arrived that afternoon.

It was all he needed. A quick flag on her file for Homeland Security to detain for information later, Booth was scouring passenger manifests and scribbling down her flight number and arrival time. H'd forgotten one thing, however: Bones packed a mean punch. By the time he arrived at the interrogation room, he'd been regaled with the tale of Bones judo throwing some burly guy twice her size and then ordering Homeland Security to holster their weapons.

She was still _hot_.

"You were illegally transporting human remains ma'am, and you assaulted a Homeland Security agent!"

_Yep, that has to be the guy she tossed_. He slipped into the room quietly, observing the ongoing exchange.

"Look, I'm sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your friends, but next time you should identify yourself before attacking me. What are you doing here?"

As her head swung in his direction, he realized that nothing got past her, including his entrance. He pulled his badge from his pocket and flashed it, keeping his expression neutral.

"FBI. Special Agent Seeley Booth, Major Crime Investigation D.C. Bones identifies bodies for us."

"_Don't_ call me Bones!" she snapped, adding, "And I do more than identify."

"She also writes books."

He slid a copy of _Bred In The Bone_ across the table, the author image on the back cover staring at the guy who seemed unfazed by this revelation. He'd read her book; he could tell.

"Fine. She's all yours."

"Great! Grab your skull and let's vamoose!"

"What, that's it? She's all yours? Why did you stop me?"

_Nothing_ got past her. She was on to him.

"What's the matter? You're free to go. Let's just grab your bags, click click, clink clink."

"You set me up!" she shouted angrily, turning to the Homeland Security officials. "You got a hold for information request from the FBI, didn't you?"

Buddy knew better than to jump into this fray. His silence spoke volumes and Booth winced.

"I love this book," he said at last, sliding it back across the table.

With a furious glare at Booth, she all but threw her hands up in disgust.

"Come on!" she snapped.

She cursed Booth out in at least three languages – none of them English – as they made their way to the car, her bag slapping against her thigh with every enraged step. Maybe he had resorted to dirty tactics, but he'd given her over a year of more courteous gestures to respond to. Really, it was her fault.

_Yeah, keep telling yourself that_.

They'd driven halfway back into the city before she spoke at last.

"That's the best you can do? Getting Homeland Security to snatch me so you can stage a fake rescue?"

Her eyes were charged with that _fire_ that served a shot of adrenaline to his foolish heart.

"Well, at least I picked you up at the airport," he replied, trying to be friendly.

Nope, she wasn't having it.

"Alright, come on, I went through the appropriate channels but your assistant there, he stonewalled!"

"Yeah, well after the last case, I told Zack to never ever put you through. He's a good assistant." Glancing out the window, she added, "You can let me out anywhere along here."

_Think fast_. _Bones likes... bones. Death_. Booth started sputtering details about the case, only for her to mock him and roll her eyes. He thought about kissing her, just to stop her tirade, but suspected she'd take out his testicles for it.

"If you drive one more block, I am screaming, 'Kidnap' out the window"

It wasn't an idle threat. She had that grin about her, the one that says "I am smiling because I am imagining killing you in the next two minutes". It was the grin he gave people that refused to stop calling him Seeley.

"You know what? I am trying to mend bridges here." _And you're not having it, because you are so goddamn stubborn!_

"Pull over."

He gave in, realizing that to gain, he'd have to give. Of course, she burst from the car and stormed off like she was in some speed walking competition. And he was off and chasing her, just like he swore he wouldn't, because he couldn't help it. She pissed him off like no one else, but he needed her. Not her skills, _her_. And when she demanded full participation in the case, he stupidly promised it to her, because he was a gambler (albeit in recovery) and she was worth the ante.

"What do you want, to spit in my hand? We're Scully and Mulder."

"I don't know what that means."

_God, I've missed hearing those words! Like a strange, sick music to my ears._

"It's an olive branch. Just... get back in the car."

She hesitated briefly, then complied and he swore a weight lifted from his chest. _I can breathe again_.

_"Yeah, it's all right  
Yeah, it's all right"_

* * *

_**Here's where we get interactive: like any mix, this tape doesn't have to be a straight narrative. Not at all. The nature of vignettes and one-shots means I can deliver the final list (and yes, I have it all mapped out) in almost any order. Every now and then, I will offer you as a choice and your answers will decide how the story unfolds.**  
_

_**Here's your first decision: Hurt or Jealousy? Your wish is your DJ's command. Next track spins on Sunday, as per my shiny new updates schedule on my profile and will continue weekly until The Bard In The Bodycount wraps up.  
**_


	3. Mr Brightside

_**AN: The moment I posed the question, I knew what your answer would be and well... I'm a little anxious. **_

_**I'm a smut lover. I'm very sexually open. But I always dread writing smut/sexual content for some reason.  
**_

_**Now, I've been told in the past I write "classy smut" - grapefruit, one reader called it, as opposed to lemon. Generally, I agree. This is... well, you'll see. Jealousy does interesting things to people. Let's see what it does to Booth this time. This story's rated M for a reason.  
**_

_**Tag To: The Con Man In The Meth Lab; reference to The Pain In The Heart  
**_

**__****Disclaimer: I do not own Bones or The Killers' impossibly catchy tune, "Mr. Brightside". Dialogue is used for context; no infringement is intended.**  


* * *

**Mr. Brightside (The Killers)**

"_I'm coming out of my cage  
And I've been doing just fine  
Gotta gotta be down  
Because I want it all__..._"

He shouldn't care.

He keeps telling himself this as he pours another scotch and drains the glass. He tells himself again as he glances at his phone. He wants to call _him_ and ask him what the hell he did to his partner. He knows damn well what he did – or at least _tried_ to do. He can feel the damage done, the earth opening up between him and the one person he thought would always, _always_ take his side.

But she doesn't have his side, not entirely. Oh no, not now. And he wants to call _her_, as the rage comes to a rolling boil in his veins. He wants to ask her what he did. Ask if she _liked _it.

Another drink. Another angry shot pounded back. He's going to pay for this tomorrow. Ha. Happy fucking birthday, Booth. Happy. Fucking. Birthday.

But he shouldn't care. He wouldn't care if it was Cam. Cam is his friend, too. So why does the thought of his brother's hands on his partner make him want to break his brother's legs and throw him in a ditch? Why does the thought of her seeking Jared's touch make him want to claim her mouth as _his,_ damn it?

It's insane. Irrational. He's been over this for years and he's grateful for their close friendship.

It was only a kiss. One kiss on a rainy night.

"_It started out with a kiss  
How did it end up like this?  
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss_..."

_Sleep it off_. That's what he's going to do. He's projecting his misery over being single _again_ on his birthday onto his brother and partner. That's all this is. Sweets would love it. He'd write a whole shrinky article on it for some shrinky journal and feel like a superstar. Booth could shove a nice gold star straight up his –

_Temper, temper_.

He strips out of his jeans and shirt and crawls into a t-shirt and sweats before crawling into bed. _Birthday blues_. Everybody got them. Cam's usually involved a crash diet and hating her entire family for a week. With a heavy sigh, Booth closed his eyes and burrowed his head into the pillow.

"_Now I'm falling asleep  
And she's calling a cab  
While he's having a smoke  
And she's taking a drag  
__Now they're going to bed  
And my stomach is sick  
And it's all in my head  
But she's touching his chest  
Now, he takes off her dress  
Now, letting me go..._"

_They were kissing._

His eyes flew open angrily. This isn't fair to himself, let alone her. She's a grown woman with _biological urges_ and she can do whatever she wants about them. He's not her boyfriend, not her lover and certainly not her keeper.

"Sleep. I just need to sleep."

His eyes flutter close and again, _they are kissing_, only this time, he's the goddamn rubbernecker at a five-car pile-up and he cannot look away. Jared's hands slide down to her lower back and her slender body melds to his and it is a full-out tonsil hockey tournament in Booth's throbbing skull. He turns over in frustration, willing himself to think of other things. Hockey. Parker. The goddamn messy body they're investigating.

Jared's still got his hands on his partner and he's still kissing her and Booth is ready to kill.

"Fuck off!" he mumbles, opening his eyes and giving his head a shake.

It doesn't work. The scene changes when he closes his eyes, only it's far, far worse: his scheming womanizer brother's got his hands on her ass and when he squeezes, Bones is _laughing_. She's _happy_ and _oh God, her hand is sliding lower_ and Booth is about to lose his mind.

"_And I just can't look - it's killing me  
And taking control  
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea  
Turning through sick lullabies  
Choking on your alibis  
But it's just the price I pay..._"

This is hell and he has no reason to care! He throws off the sheets, feeling overheated, and watches the little red numbers on the alarm clock flip to one in the morning. He needs sleep, desperately. He's going to be useless in the morning and it's all because Cam told him that they had a "late night". Did they have a "good morning"? Were they having another "late night" right now?

"What the hell does she see in you?" he shouts, frustrated and buzzed enough to talk to people in his head. "What?"

He can't run from it. He can't hide. Not even staying up all night will save him now, because he can see it playing out in his mind like a goddamn movie. Jared's smug little face is asking her to go home with him and she's going to do it, going to get in his little brother's car and become another notch in his goddamn bedpost. His brother is family and he loves him, but he will _never, ever_ be good enough for Temperance Brennan. He's not fit to lick her goddamn shoes.

"_Destiny is calling me  
Open up my eager eyes  
'Cause I'm Mr Brightside..._"

A shower. He needs to cool down and rinse the layer of angry sweat that's already dampening his shirt. With a furious growl, he strips naked and pitches the clothes across the room. His mind is racing away now, having a merry time torturing him with this image interspersed with that kiss from years ago, that rejection that left him breathless but saved him, in a way. Saved him from himself.

"_I'm coming out of my cage  
And I've been doing just fine  
Gotta gotta be down  
Because I want it all  
It started out with a kiss  
How did it end up like this?  
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss..._"

It was only a kiss! But her kiss is infectious and there's no cure, it seems. It lays dormant, this infection, and flares when another man dares believe he is enough for the only woman who's ever stood up to him, truly stood up and faced him. And as he cranks on the shower, he is struck with an image of her standing there, so small yet so daunting with the hurt flashing in her eyes – the grief of weeks having taken a toll on their very foundation. He steps into the tub and here it is, clear as that day, his body naked and damp before her.

"_Would you like a towel_?" she asks, subtly casting a glance at his cock.

"_Now I'm falling asleep  
And she's calling a cab  
While he's having a smoke  
And she's taking a drag  
Now they're going to bed  
And my stomach is sick  
And it's all in my head  
But she's touching his chest  
Now, he takes off her dress  
Now, letting me go..._"

Booth closes his eyes beneath the spray and in his fevered mind, he changes fate.

"_I want you naked_," he tells her in his head, and she is stunned.

"_Booth, I..I..._"

He's going to show her what she's missed out on from the moment she blamed the Cuervo and bailed. Other-Booth caresses her cheek lightly, smiling as she leans into his touch. She is so incredibly soft, so delicate for a woman of such strength. He wants to be her undoing.

Other-Booth is kissing her now, not Jared, and her body shudders as his hands hurriedly release her pants to the tiled floor. He presses against her, pulling her hips against him and he is already so hard, already aching for her.

"_Bones_," he moans into her mouth.

Her arms work to tug free of her jacket as her lips press against his bare chest, trailing kisses from one clavicle to the next – the correct terminology locked in his memory because she has commented before on how exemplary his structure is, including the clavicle. He is proud that she finds him to be a fine specimen, because he understands now as she slides her hand below his waits and grips him with her fist with a satisfied sigh that it is Squint for _fuckable_ and _hot_.

Other-Booth is now tearing at her clothing, her blouse destroyed and discarded before he pulls her into the tub. The popped buttons scatter like pennies and he thinks of a wishing well, of dreams coming true. And this – this image of his partner gasping as he cups her stunning breasts through flimsy white lace – is a dream he's held tight within and denied. But no more.

She is _his_.

"_'Cause I just can't look - it's killing me  
And taking control  
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea  
Turning through sick lullabies  
Choking on your alibis  
But it's just the price I pay..._"

In reality, Booth is underneath the hot spray with his eyes shut and his cock in his hand, stroking firmly as his mind unfurls a new ending for their story.

In the beautiful fantasy in his head, their mouths tangle in a mess of need and relief while his hand pops open the closure of her bra, releasing her ample tits from their lacy prison. There is so much being said in the teasing tongues and the way she bites his lower lip and draws it between her own, sucking hard. _I almost lost you. I need you. Don't leave me._

How could he leave her, when he needs her just as much?

She strokes him languidly, running her fist along his length and twisting at the top, her fingers lightly skirting the ridge before plunging down and ghosting her fingers over his sac. His mouth finds her neck and claims it with a vicious suction as he slides his right palm down her taut stomach and between her pale thighs. A keening cry rips through the bathroom as he slides a finger along her folds. He is amazed at the heat of her but it isn't enough. He wants all of her.

"_Rip it_," she tells him and this alternate him is happy to oblige, discarding the panties over his shoulder.

She gasps as he slides two fingers deep inside of her and he almost blows his load because she is wetter than any woman he's ever had, and the vice grip on his fingers makes him wonder how it would feel to thrust inside of her. Her grip on his shaft tightens and she pumps him faster, drawing a guttural moan from his throat.

"_Do you know how long I've wanted to do this? Do you?_" Other-Booth demands.

"_We only kissed – _" she protests.

"_Nothing is 'only' with you. Nothing_."

Her neck blossoms in a deep scarlet where he's assaulted her flesh and it arouses him to think of how visible it will be at the lab. Everyone will know how badly he needs her, how desperately he craves her. His left hand steadies her quivering frame as his slick fingers withdraw and collide with her swollen clit before ramming straight back inside, over and over. His mouth draws her left nipple in, sucking and rolling his tongue over it and he is so close, _so goddamn close_, but he will not go before her. She will have her pleasure first. She must always come first.

"_Oh, Booth! Ohhhhh..."_

"_Am I a loser?_" he asks huskily.

"_Fuck, no, no..._"

She is tensing, a spring curling upon itself, and her moans and cries fall from her lips as an incoherent string of vowels. He slides a third finger inside and palms her clit until she clenches around his hand with a gasped curse and screams his name. Her breasts heave as he pulls her close and while she's released him in her climax, it doesn't matter. _She_ matters. But his partner has other plans, and while Reality-Booth is sliding to the tub and panting, his callused hand twisting and stroking him to the brink, Other-Booth is also falling to the tub floor with his partner's back pressed against him.

"_You're mine, Temperance_," Other-Booth growls in her ear.

"_I've always been yours_," she promises.

Her hands grip his thighs and she lifts her ass into the air. His eager hands grip her hips as she sinks onto his cock with a gasp. He's not going to last and he can't make himself care, because they fit so goddamn perfectly and this, _this_ is why he can't move on. It was never just a kiss, was it? Not with her. She rises and falls, gyrating her hips and he is so close, so ready that when she orders him to come inside her, his vision hazes and he bounces her tight ass up and down until he finally finds release, buried to the hilt in her. She gyrates again and he slides a hand between her thighs and draws wild circles on her clit until she cries out with a jolt, sending an aftershock to his softening dick.

"_Destiny is calling me  
Open up my eager eyes  
'Cause I'm Mr Brightside..._"

He can still taste the sweetness of her skin as his eyes fly open, his fist and chest sticky with the load he's blown. Booth draws a shaky breath and then another, and she is fading from his mind, fading with a soft smile and a promise of being his.

"Jesus," he sputters.

The water's gone cold during his jealousy-fueled ministrations, which seems absurdly ironic to him. Lathering off the mess he's made, he kills the water and lays there, collecting his thoughts.

_Where the hell did that come from_? He hasn't fantasized about her since... well, there have been moments here and there, but he's a man and a beautiful woman will always evoke a response. But a serious, full-out fantasy he's jerked it to? It's been a long time.

Does it mean anything? Booth doesn't know. What he does know is that the evil image taunting him has disappeared, the green-eyed monster having been tamed. A pang of guilt strikes him then, because he's just fucked his partner in his mind, and she deserves something better than being a fuck of any kind.

Epiphany sinks in: _That's why her being with Jared pisses you off_. Because to him, she would have been a fuck. And while Cam is streetwise and can hold her own, Bones is so trusting, so socially naïve at times. She doesn't deserve the manipulation Jared's demonstrated at plenty of bars over the years.

Even in his scotch-soaked dirty dreams, he's trying to rescue her. A hopeless white knight.

He dries off and stumbles back into his bedroom, where he is suddenly too exhausted to dress. Naked, he pulls the sheets over himself and sighs. Tomorrow is going to be awkward as hell now. Today, really, which means...

_You just jerked off to your partner on your birthday. Classy_.

He shrugs it off and yawns. Being with her, even like this, is better than being alone. But this is the only way he'll ever be with her and he knows it. The line is there to protect her, to protect their partnership. Nothing is worth losing that. Nothing.

It would only ever be that one kiss.

"_I never..._"

* * *

_**So, two lovely, wonderful requests?**_

_**1) I get incredibly anxious when I post anything remotely smutty, and I have never done a jealous claiming-your-partner shower self-pleasuring sequence before. Please review. It's so much healthier than chocolate or Xanax.  
**_

_**2) I am getting older this approaching Friday (yuck). Distractions are welcome. Bonus points for Fisher involvement. Uber kudos for Hodgela. Going down with the B&B ship of course. Killing Daisy never ever grows old. FF doesn't allow links but direct me to goodies!  
**_

_**The Bard In The Bodycount updates Wednesday. I'll be spinning you a little slice of the fragility of life next Sunday. Cheers, lovelies!  
**_


	4. Porcelain

_**AN: Phew! Thank you for reassuring me for the last chapter. It wasn't the most romantic smut in the world, but the end conclusion - the motive behind the need to claim her in his mind - was rather sweet and Boothy. Save Brennan. Protect his partner. I forgive him. Your reviews have all been so supportive and kind.  
**_

_**And now, the flip side of last week's coin... Time to explore one of my favourite B&B scenes, a perfect example of how much David and Emily can say with a glance. I debated posting, in light of recent events, and debated changing chapter order (this was written two weeks ago and I have others ready), but in the end, distraction always helps me... and the message seemed sadly fitting.  
**_

_**My heart goes out to Newtown...  
**_

_**Tag To: The Pain In The Heart  
**_

**__****Disclaimer: I do not own Bones or Better Than Ezra's bittersweet beauty of a tune, "Porcelain". Dialogue is used for context; no infringement is intended.**  


* * *

**Porcelain (Better Than Ezra)**

His jaw aches as he turns on the faucet with a rough twist. It is a welcome pain, a not entirely undeserved sort of ache. He shifts back and forth as he drops the needle on one of his favourite records and knows it's going to take more than a little ice and Tylenol to recover.

Why is he surprised? He's known she's packed a punch from the start.

He turns the music up louder and checks the temperature of the water before stripping out of his clothing. He's missed his apartment, missed the creature comforts of his domain. He paced the cushioned cage of the safehouse for several long and hellish days, watching TV with the other agents and cracking jokes, all of which they understood.

He missed not being understood.

There's nothing he can do: the damage is done. He was just following orders. Couldn't she understand that?

Forget about it. He needs to forget the way her body shifted and shook, the way she angrily spat at Angela that the bullet was hers, that she would have happily taken it. Forget the moment he realized her acting hadn't improved: she had truly believed he'd died. Another sip of beer from the novelty helmet Jared bought him last Christmas and he sinks into the hot water and loses himself in a comic. He even lights a cigar because fuck it, he took a bullet and lived to tell the tale.

He knows how often it goes the other way.

He gets no further than track two on his worn copy of _Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell_ when his bathroom door flies open and the needle scratches as his partner yanks it off the vinyl. He has no time to cringe at this abuse of sacred property because she is furious and not leaving without a fight. But not a fist fight; no, she's had her fix of that today. This is a stealthy, psychological battle and she's going to duel to the death.

For a minute, he is just as furious. This is a complete invasion of his privacy, no matter how upset she is over the faked death thing. It's also a wake-up call for him that the fake rock is an open invitation for people to break in with his own key. In the next minute, he realizes he's in a vulnerable position, one she seems oblivious to as she criticizes his choice of beverage and celebratory Cuban delight.

"_Hey, you've got a lot of nerve to show your face around here  
Hey, you've got a lot of nerve to dredge up all my fears  
Well, I wish I could shake some sense into you and walk out the door_

_But your skin is like porcelain_  
_Yeah, your skin is like porcelain..._"

"Okay, what the hell do you want now, Bones? Okay? Because I'm not really feeling too relaxed."

"You should have told me you weren't dead!"

It's been a constant refrain today, and he doesn't know how many other ways he can explain it. But he tries again, because maybe it'll sink into her brilliant but bullheaded skull.

"Protocol?" she echoes.

"Yes!"

"We've been partners for three years Booth, and you've broken protocol before – sometimes putting my life in danger. Which makes sense, since you _clearly_ don't have any concern for me!"

The still-present ache beneath his bandage begs to differ. The memory of dragging himself from a hospital bed to rescue her from a rogue agent planning to feed her to dogs rebuffs her. His callused hands still remember digging her out of the earth, and they push him to standing in the tub, because he's forgotten where he is. He needs to assert himself and he's going to use his height and stature to do it.

"I took a bullet for you!" he snaps.

"Once! That only goes so far."

Her voice almost breaks and it's enough to jar him from the misty red-eyed rage brewing within. Her eyes are pained and he understands with sickening clarity that he's the one who's hurt her. In his mind, he can hear her words, ringing in his ears: _I knew you'd come_.

She trusted him to come for her, to save her, but also to not abandon her. And then he left her. For two weeks, he left her. The impatient bouncing at the cemetery takes on a new hue, one of desperate anxiety and sadness. He knows how she feels about cemeteries, about visiting loved ones. He's put her through hell.

A chill hits his body as she shifts her vision down, ever so slightly, then up again.

"_Just the other day I felt I had you by a string  
Just the other day I felt we could be everything  
But now when I see you, you're somebody else  
In somebody's eyes  
_

_And your skin is like porcelain_  
_Yeah, your skin is like porcelain..._"

"Would you like a towel?" she asks, her voice still hoarse with emotion.

He's naked. Naked in front of his beautiful partner, the woman he once wanted to take home and bed. And his awareness of her, of her noticing his nude form, has created a new problem, one that's growing fast.

There's also a complication: he's forgotten to actually bring a bath towel into the room with him.

Reluctantly, he sinks back into the water, although it affords little in the way of modesty. It suggests a comfort he most certainly does not feel with her, a silent refusal to end his bath simply because she's marched into his bathroom and broken his heart. No matter how embarrassed he feels, he has one priority right now: making it right with her.

"Fine. What is it that I should have done, Bones?" She licks her lips unconsciously and he squeezes his thighs in a desperate bid to calm down. "What did you want me to do?"

"Well, you could have called me! Did you really think I needed to be vetted by your boss? I mean, don't you trust me?"

She is vulnerable too: her posture is ever so slightly diminished, her voice lacking the confident bravado of her intelligence. He wonders if this is a conversation she had with her father and his stomach lurches. He should have called her. Too many people have walked out of her life without answers.

"_I don't know what I'm saying  
Well, I don't know if you're there  
In the words you are feigning  
Do you even care?_"

"Of course I do."

"Then why wasn't I told? It must have been something you said," she presses, edging closer until she is towering over him, rendering him as insignificant as she clearly felt.

"No, I don't know why you weren't told!" And he doesn't know why, nor does he understand why this hasn't bothered him before this very moment.

"But you-you said I should be. I mean, aren't you curious why I wasn't?"

"Yes! Do you want me to find out why you weren't told?"

As soon as he's said it, he knows the correct response: _yes, yes she does want me to find out_. But Bones, in her ever stubborn way, cannot give him a straight answer, nor fully accept that he wasn't maliciously trying to hurt her.

"If it's important to you," she replies quietly, with the hint of a pout crossing her soft lips.

"Fine. I will." His ego bruised, he can't resist a counter-jab. "Next time I die, I will tell you."

He flips open his comic, scarcely hearing her soft response.

"I'll look forward to that." Moments later, she's back to her old self, or so it seems, investigating a grand scientific mystery. "What are you reading?"

"A novel." He catches her dubious expression and adds, "A graphic novel."

"Just so you know, I find your lack of puritan modesty very refreshing."

She _had_ to remind him of his predicament, didn't she? He tilts the comic for cover, but it's unnecessary. She pivots on her heel and heads out, pausing to drop the needle on his record before sliding the door shut behind her.

The sanctity of his watery refuge restored, the fine details of their encounter sift into consciousness. Her clothes hung just a little looser than he remembered, particularly her pants. Her eyes, they were more grey than blue – stormy and troubled, not the serene ocean he often lost himself within.

She grieved him. For two weeks, his partner grieved his loss. Her quiet response moments ago – "_I'll look forward to that._" – takes on a deeper meaning. _If he can tell her he's dead, he's not gone_.

He suddenly recalls her touch on that night at the Checkerbox, her hand stroking his face in the ambulance. Her words are garbled, lost in a haze of sirens and the pounding of his heart in his ears, but her frantic looks as he slipped in and out of consciousness linger. Her bloodstained palm cradled his cheek, smooth and cool like porcelain.

He'll remember next time that the finest dolls can break oh so easily.

"_Well I wish I could kill you, savor the sight  
Get into my car, drive into the night  
Then lie as I scream to the heavens above  
That I was the last one you ever loved  
Yes, your skin is like porcelain_

_But your skin is like porcelain_  
_Yeah, your skin is like porcelain_..."

* * *

_**The first of the tangled threads between scenes... and there are more lines crossing back and forth along the way. **_

**_Take care of yourselves, everyone... I'll see The Bard readers on Wednesday. Due to the holiday, I'll post the next chapter of this story a little early.  
_**


	5. Living In A Dream

**_AN: I'm so glad you enjoyed a little digging deeper into the bathroom scene... It came up in a few convos with you lovelies about how Brennan's "I'll look forward to that" is seeming sarcasm but could very well be interpreted differently. I later remembered this quote from early on:  
_**

**__****BRENNAN: **At first, I thought the worst thing was that they were missing.  
**ANGELA: **Except "dead" means no more hope.

**_Booth being dead... no more hope. Him being able to tell her he "died" means a hope of seeing him again. LeSwoon.  
_**

**_Due to the impending holidays, I've decided to update a little early. Next up, the coma dream... that Guatemala dig Brennan escaped to... "What took you so long to recover?" How did he evolve from "Who are you?" to "Which life is real?" to "You're in love with Dr. Brennan"? Let's take a glimpse..._  
**

**_There's a taste of M-ish content in this one. You have been duly warned, workplace readers.  
_**

**_Tag To: The End In The Beginning; Harbingers In A Fountain  
_**

**_Disclaimer: I own neither Bones nor the groove-rock of "Living In A Dream" by Finger Eleven. Dialogue is used for context; no infringement intended.  
_**

* * *

**Living In A Dream (Finger Eleven)**

"Who are you?"

It's the question he asks, but it's not what he means. He knows the woman in front of him: her smile, her eyes, her lips. He knows where to touch her to make her giggle and where his touches elicit soft moans of pleasure. He knows the taste of her on his tongue, knows the pressure that will send her over the edge. He knows that she loves being on top, but loves when he fights her to be on top all the more.

But she's speaking strangely, and her clothing is more demure than usual, and another vision of her comes to mind. He knows her kindness. He knows that she has saved him in more ways than he can ever explain, even to himself. Between the ethers, he understands this is a paradox. There are two of her. But she is one woman.

Which one is she?

As the ethers fade, his heart becomes clearer and he no longer is uncertain. She is Bren. She is the woman he loves more than his own life. He feels it in the warm haze that floods his body in her presence, in the electricity of her touch on his arm. He sees that love reflected in her worried eyes and that, too, assures him of the truth.

"Is the baby okay?"

She startles, edging backwards. "Booth, there is no baby."

He begins to weep, imagining scenarios where they have crashed in their car, leaving him unconscious after surgery. He feels guilt, certain that it is he who has killed their unborn child. There is talk of a procedure, but he can't understand. They're married. They've been trying, but not for long. Insemination makes no sense.

The doctors slip him back into the murky waters, drowning out his protests. She weeps at the doorway, hugging herself tightly.

When he awakens, she is gone. A neurologist is there, asking questions. He doesn't understand why the doctors are concerned. He knows who he is. He's her husband. Until he isn't. Until his brother's partner appears, only she isn't his partner; she's his friend and former lover, and a colleague. His brother is off somewhere... she isn't sure where. But he isn't a cop. That she knows. He's the cop. Special Agent Seeley Booth, FBI. The badge says so, before they confiscate it.

She does not return on that day, or the next.

On day five, after being bombarded by newspaper clippings of cases solved and photos from Angela (who is not a hostess, but a forensic artist), he begins to accept that the other life is a dream, an illusion. But where did it come from, if he and Bren – no, Brennan, or "Bones", as Angela informs him he likes to call her – are not in love?

She returns that day and she is ashen. She sits down beside him, begging for forgiveness. He doesn't understand.

"The book," she manages as the tears begin to fall. "I read it to you."

It slowly comes back that she is a writer, and this piece of the puzzle falls into place and is logical. Logic is her thing; he remembers that now. It is all a product of a novel she read aloud and she cites statistics on coma patients hearing things said to them while asleep and it all makes sense. Almost. Because after she informs him that she's been called to Guatemala on a dig and that the doctors assure her he will recover fully, she slips away and leaves him alone, and he has an epiphany.

If the novel was her mind, her imagination, and he interpreted the characters as being them, what does that say about her feelings?

* * *

_"I was never the kind_  
_To be taking my time_  
_Any place that's worth a damn_

_And today's another day_  
_That I've gone and thrown away_  
_And I don't care where it lands_  
_'Cause I'm just thinking about us..."_

He begins therapy, slowly working to recover full speech capabilities, but at night, he allows himself to wander back into the dream. He is in no hurry to work again, not without her. The so-called real world returns to him as truth, but his eyes are open now to new interpretations. For so long, he's dismissed the concept of them as an _us_ as impossible: he's not enough for her, not the right guy. She doesn't see him that way. These are facts he's held to be true. But the novel... it suggests he's been wrong for a very long time.

By day, he is Seeley Booth: recovering from brain surgery. By night, he wanders through five years of memories, reanalyzing the conclusions he's made along the way. He replays conversations between them, counts up the late nights spent with take-out and laughter over paperwork that could have clearly waited until morning. They scan his brain and tell him he is just fine, that there is no damage, and he agrees. Nothing is wrong. It's just more right.

_"I've been living in a dream about you_  
_And now I know you were all I ever wanted on my mind_  
_And if I never see_  
_My own reality_  
_Well, I'm okay to leave it all behind..."_

At night, he slips back into the dream. The details shift: the nightclub is gone; Hodgins is a bug guy; they solve crimes. But at night, they return to a shared home, where they slip between the sheets of a shared bed and make love for hours. And it is even better than he once imagined, because now he has her insights, drawn from her prose.

He understands what she finds sensual and his imagination unfurls a world where she calls his name breathlessly as his lips move across her soft skin. The sex is intense but not rough, shades of tenderness between the hard thrusts and her legs over his shoulders. He can feel her heels dig into his shoulder blades as she tightens around him, drawing him deeper into a secret she's been keeping from him for far too long.

He slips and mentions that he can't wait to get home to _their _place and Sweets hears this. _Identity confusion_, he calls it, right before informing the Bureau that although he is leaving the hospital, he is not fit for duty. He is furious with the kid, but even more furious with himself for persisting in these dreams.

The night he is released, he sleeps at her apartment. Her pillow smells like her: a clean scent, soft flowers and a hint of citrus from her shampoo. He wraps his frame about them and closes his eyes, imagining she is there. He wants to protect her from the nightmares he knows she still has. He wants her to wake up knowing she is loved. Because she is: good God, he loves her so damn much.

_"I'll be gone for a time_  
_Tuning out for a while_  
_It's gonna look like I'm not all there_  
_I've decided that today_  
_Seems alright to piss away_  
_Ignore my empty stare_  
_'Cause I'm just thinking about us..."_

He sleeps at her place for five days before Angela catches him. He's making breakfast in her kitchen when she unlocks the door with her key, on a mission to collect mail and check the solitary plant on the sill.

"Booth! What are you doing here?"

"I'm, uh... I came to check on Bones' place. I was hungry."

Her eyes narrow as she studies his handiwork. "I emptied her fridge weeks ago. Where did the eggs come from?"

"The bodega. I grabbed them on the way in."

He's lying. They both know it. Angela eyes his sweatpants and t-shirt and shakes her head.

"Honey, are you confused again? Should I call the doctor?"

"No! I'm fine," he insists. "The mail's over there," he adds, pointing at a side table.

Angela moves to examine it and he piles the scrambled eggs onto a plate before they burn. He should have anticipated this. His partner is a practical woman who's gone away many times. But he couldn't sleep at his place: the bed felt cold and uninviting and she's not there. Artifacts of her linger in her home and it's the next best thing.

He misses her fiercely. So much so that he misses Angela's calls to him until she snaps her fingers in front of his face.

"Huh?"

"Booth, I asked you when your next appointment is," she says.

"This afternoon."

"You should mention this," she tells him.

"There's nothing to mention, Angela. I'm fine. I'm just bored not working."

He flashes the grin, the one that usually charms women senseless. It works just enough to send the artist on her way, although she wears a sad smile as he bids her farewell.

_Fuck. She's going to call Sweets_. He needs a new plan. Devouring his eggs, he thinks of one and grins.

Two hours later, he is switching her pillowcases for an identical, brand new set. He takes the ones that smell like her with him, tucked carefully in his gym bag.

_"I've been living in a dream about you_  
_And now I know you were all I ever wanted on my mind_  
_And if I never see_  
_My own reality_  
_Well, I'm okay to leave it all behind..."_

He can't shut it off anymore. These feelings, the ones he's felt over the years – they now have a name. Love. And he can't make it go away, no matter how hard he tries. But Bones... she doesn't believe in love. She doesn't do relationships, not really. She was only half-in when it came to Sully; she admitted as much one drunken night months after he sailed into the sunset.

Like his dream self told her, she's Iceland: cool on the surface, volcano beneath. But she shrouds herself in winter winds, blowing away those who dare venture too close to her red-hot truths.

"Let it go," he tells himself. "It was just a dream about her book."

She's due back in two weeks, Angela says. He has two weeks to get it together. Two weeks to convince Sweets that he's fine, that he knows who he is – and who he isn't. He's not her husband. He's not her lover. He's her partner, her close friend.

But at night, his subconscious steers him back into a world where her smiles are for him alone and he wakes up depressed. The dream can't come true.

* * *

_"When I come down_  
_And look around_  
_I can't believe_  
_The fantasy is gone like a memory_  
_Out of my reach_  
_Fading out from me_  
_You're fading out from me..."_

He stumbles out of the kid's office with his badge in hand, grinning. He's back. He's got his job and his gun and goddamn, it feels good! He hasn't had the dream in a week now, and he feels relieved. No dream, no heartache. No heartache, no love for Bones. Not the romantic kind, anyway,

It really was just a residual effect of identity confusion.

With a spring in his step, he signs out his Bureau vehicle and drives over to the Jeffersonian. It's early, but his partner is always in first and out last when it comes to the lab. She should be back by now, although she hasn't called him yet. He parks with a yawn and examines himself in the rear view mirror. Why Sweets simply _had _to book him for an 8am appointment, Booth doesn't know. _Probably to be an asshole_, he reasons, and maybe he deserves it for the Parker-style tantrums he threw during the first week of their therapy.

Security nods to him as he passes and Booth steps inside, scanning the platform first. No Bones. Some random lab rat is scurrying by, but there's no sign of his usual team. He heads for her office and is disappointed to find it vacant. There's not a trace of her here: the desk is empty of files and her omnipresent pens are nowhere to be found.

He'll wait, he decides. Eying her couch, he decides a nap is in order. Hell, he didn't even have the energy to shave this morning, it was so damn early. He's dreading a return to the usual work hours.

Stretching out on the couch, it isn't long before sleep claims him. And when it does, Booth soon realizes it's taking no prisoners. No, his subconscious wants to annihilate his grasp on reality, one sensual kiss at a time.

She is there, but this isn't the dream world: this is Dr. Temperance Brennan, forensic anthropologist, and they're at her place with take-out. Only this time, when he suggests he get going, she crosses the room towards him and with a soft, hesitant voice, she asks him to stay.

Confused, he begins to ask why but finds himself interrupted by her soft lips ghosting over his own. She is pressed onto her tiptoes and her hands wrap lightly around his neck, keeping him near. _No talk_, she says softly. _Just stay_. He swallows hard and realizes there's no way in hell he can refuse her.

His hands fall to her hips as they kiss again, her tongue running along his lips until he parts them and she is inside, luring his out to play with a beckoning sweep. He complies, the kiss deepening as she presses her body against him and he feels himself harden on contact. She is so warm, so forceful and yet so soft to the touch as his fingers slip up beneath her blouse, savouring the feel of her skin.

They break apart gasping and she fumbles with his shirt buttons, releasing them from the bottom up. She licks her lips as his chest is revealed and he groans, because he is acutely aware of what that tongue can do. She's no sooner pushed his shirt from his shoulders before he seizes the hem of her own and tugs it roughly over her head. She laughs as he tosses it across the room, the silk crumpling in a heap on the floor.

_Something funny_? he asks her lightly.

_No, just wonderful_, she replies shyly.

Their mouths collide as they make quick work of their other garments: her hands fumble in front to open his Cocky belt buckle and fly, while his hands seek her back and unzip her skirt. Synchronized, they fall to the floor in a heap of polyester and they stumble their way out of them, moving slowly down the hall towards her bedroom. She pushes him against the wall just outside of her room and grinds herself against his erection. It is all he can do to not rip her panties free and sheath himself inside her.

_Jesus, Bones!_ he mutters.

His hands grip her ass tightly as his mouth sinks to her collarbone and sucks hard. She moans loudly and he continues to apply pressure, the tip of his tongue drifting along her flesh. She tastes subtly sweet, but delicate. Her hand slips inside his boxers and she runs a single finger along his length, teasing him.

_Do you love me?_ she whispers in his ear.

_Yeah. Do you want me to prove it to you?_

_Mmm, if you're not too sleepy… _

He grins as he lifts her into the air. Understanding him, her silky legs wrap around his waist. He hisses as her ass brushes the head of his cock with every one of the fifteen steps from the hall to the bed, where he lays her down gently. His hands seize her panties and she lifts her hips to assist him in their removal. The sight of her is breathtaking and for a moment he stares in wonder.

She beckons him forward with a single finger and a smirk. He sheds his boxers and slides his body over hers. More kisses, frantic and demanding as his hardness presses into her thigh, but he's not giving in just yet. He wants her to squirm and she does, her breath in soft pants.

_Boooooooooth_...

_I love you_, he murmurs, trailing kisses along her neck.

_Show me_, she pleads.

With several teasing passes between her folds, he finally thrusts inside of her, They gasp in unison at the feel of it, the perfection that is the two of them together. His hand tangles in her auburn locks as he begins to move, a painfully slow withdrawal followed by a forceful slam to the hilt. She bites her lip and moans loudly and Booth knows it has never felt like this with any other woman.

She is his and he is hers.

He's lost in her eyes, those brilliant blues in that surreal shade, and she knows it – and take advantage. Suddenly, she is on top, straddling him with a smile.

_Let me love you too_, she whispers as she sinks herself onto his length...

* * *

_"I've been living in a dream about you_  
_And now I know you were all I ever wanted on my mind_  
_And if I never see_  
_My own reality_  
_Well, I'm okay to leave it all behind."_

It's a metaphorical bucket of ice water to the face as the pressure on his chest startles him from his slumber and fast turns to one with great potential for embarrassment as he hears his partner cry out in equal surprise.

"Oh!" he gasps, staring up at her baffled face.

He scrambles to his feet, acutely aware of the hard-on he's packing from his dream. _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit _–

"Booth!" she exclaims happily.

"Bones!"

And then she embraces him tightly and he draws his pelvis back as far as he can, praying she doesn't notice the bulge in his jeans. But he can't _not_ hold her because it has been six impossibly long weeks without her. His dick can't seem to make up its mind: the terror is killing his boner, but her scent is spiking his arousal anew.

"Hey," she murmurs.

"Hi."

She laughs quietly, and although he knows it's one of joy, he tells his dick it's a comment on his size. Problem solved.

"Look at that," he says, taking note of her luggage. "I'm reinstated on the day that you come home. That's the biggest coinky-dink ever."

"No, that's not even the weirdest coinky-dink today." _Always contradictory_, he thinks as she gestures to him. "If you were reinstated, why are you dressed like a furniture mover?"

_And blunt._ But he doesn't mind. Much.

"Sweets, he just, um, cleared me so I came straight over to tell you."

Concerned Brennan emerges. "What took you so long to recover?"

_Oh, you know, I took to sleeping at your apartment and kinda persisted in believing in a relationship between us in my dreams. Dreams I thought were over with until your couch here..._

"Oh, um... don't worry. Nothing's wrong with me. I'm 110%."

He sees a flash of what seems like panic in her eyes."Well, y-you know there's nothing more than 100%, right?"

Before he can reassure her, Angela strolls into the office and Booth immediately begins praying that she'll say nothing of their crossed paths in Bones' kitchen.

"Hey, Brennan. Hey, Booth."

"Hey," he greets her casually.

Thankfully, Angela is on a mission that's wiped her memory clear of the incident he doesn't want to explain. "Listen guys, there are a bunch of bodies buried under the Teversham Fountain."

Booth's brow furrows. "How do you know that?"

"Avalon told me."

"Who's Avalon?"

His partner jumps in. "Avalon is Angela's psychic."

She says this with a subtle glee, likely because she's anticipating his reaction. Desperate to erase all lingering worry from her mind, he blows raspberries at Angela like a ten year-old.

"See? Even superstitious Booth doesn't believe in psychics," Bones crows triumphantly.

Angela's eyes narrow. "That's interesting, because she says you two were linked in a very profound and spiritual manner."

This is unnerving. Angela surely knows the basic gist of his confusion, but her words are loaded. He glances at Bones, studying her reaction. She hesitates only briefly before blowing raspberries of her own. He joins her, grateful for the cover. Besides, Angela could have inferred that or heard as much – they are best friends, after all.

Angela, however, isn't deterred. "Oh, really? Well, she also says that in your weirdo, alternate shared life experience thing that Brennan was pregnant."

Booth's very anxious now, because that's not a detail Angela knows, as far as he's aware. Again, he looks to his partner and is alarmed at her discomfort.

"It's odd that neither of you mentioned that," Angela muses aloud.

Silence. The uncomfortable kind that turns stomachs and feels like a swelling chasm between two people. He seeks comfort in her eyes but finds she is just as desperately seeking her own. Angela leaves them, satisfied with the pot she's stirred, and Booth understands that this is reality and he has to be himself.

He has to protect her.

"Let's go check it out," he suggests, breaking the stalemate.

"What? Why?"

Aside from the creepy accuracy of the psychic, his motivation is simple: he's tired of doing nothing. Especially when said nothing does not involve his partner.

"Six weeks, Bones. I'm going stir-crazy here, okay? Let me suit up."

She sighs, a full-body affair. "Can I at least take a shower?"

_Can I join you? _He berates himself quietly, his hand flying to his face. "Yeah, I need to shave."

They part ways and its is familiar and friendly, but also strange. There is a distance lingering between them and it pains Booth to think that they are right back where they were four years ago, when she held her cards tight against her chest and let no one into her heart.

He wants to be in her heart, feel its beat. She will tell him that this is impossible, that no one can fit within a human heart. She will tell him that it is all chemical, this ache he feels as he drives away from her. Fine, then: they are chemistry. They are molecules destined to collide, to fuse into a new, miraculous substance.

He suddenly recalls a conversation last year between her and Parker. She had come to help his son with science homework and they'd gone off on a tangent somehow that brought them to diamonds. There's a term she used that floats into mind: _covalent bond_. A sharing of negative charges, a powerful bond.

_Covalent bond_. It suits them. Maybe love is chemistry, after all...

* * *

_**A loving nudge to Covalent Bond, who writes amazing stories. A-maz-ing. Go read A Face In Every Skull right freaking now.  
**_

_**Booth's in love, alright, but can he trust himself? Can he have faith in himself like Brennan has in him? We'll have to keep digging...  
**_

_**Please let me know what you think of this story. It's also time to make another choice, dear readers: season one or season two? Your choice spins next Sunday!  
**_


	6. She's So High

**_AN: Well, looks like season two won by a small margin, which is kind of great since I've really been looking forward to writing this chapter. _  
**

**_Before we get to the good stuff, I'd like to tip my hat to Some1tookmyname, the amazing author of the one-shot 2AM. I'd always had a vision of something happening during this particular episode and 2AM captures it beautifully. The internal struggle and such. I've taken my own path with the concept - this is my head canon for the episode and has been for a while - but I didn't want anyone to think I'd copied, nor did I want any of you to miss out on the other story, because it's one of my faves.  
_**

**_This is my last fic update of 2012. Holy crap! I really hope you enjoy it, because it's come out just as I'd hoped.  
_**

**_Tag To: The Woman In the Sand; dialogue borrowed from The Truth In The Lye as well. This chapter's a T.  
_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own anything! Just my own creative contortions of our couple.  
_**

* * *

**She's So High (Tal Bachman)**

"_No_."

"No? Bones – "

"_Is this one of our cases?_" she asked angrily.

"Well, no, but – "

"_Then absolutely not!_"

Booth juggled his phone to his other ear as he tugged on his boxers and tried another tack. "C'mon Bones, there are _bones_ out in the desert with your name on them. Prosecutor bones, possibly. This case will go down in the history books and be ripped off by _CSI _next year!"

He heard her yawn loudly. "_I don't know what that means. And I don't care to. I'm your anthropologist._"

Booth winced. _Please don't shoot the messenger, please do NOT shoot the messenger_. "Technically, you're the FBI's anthropologist."

A pause, then a huff, loud and clear over the phone line. "_I don't have a choice in the matter, do I?_"

"Cullen sort of told me to kidnap you if necessary."

"_Booth!_"

"And to say he'll never bring up any of the people you've beaten up or shot on our cases ever again," Booth lied quickly.

It was the least he figured Cullen owed him for this crap. Flying her out to the scene of a recovery for an ID and flight straight back home? Total bullshit and he knew it, but the Bureau was freaking out about Roberts and determined to do everything perfectly. When you wanted a perfect identification and determination of death with decomposed remains, you wanted Dr. Temperance Brennan.

"_There and back today?_"

"Yes. Your ticket's waiting at the airport under your name – "

"_Wait a minute_," she interrupted. "_My ticket? What about yours?_"

Booth frowned. "They only need you, Bones. I'm not going."

"_Then neither am I!_"

"What?"

"_I'm hanging up, Booth_."

"Bones, wait! Just explain why you're saying no," Booth pleaded.

"_I do not feel I owe any explanations to the FBI as to why I would prefer to do my actual assigned work, as opposed to using my valuable time and skills to shield the Las Vegas office from admitting their inferior selection of forensic scientists_."

She was pissed! He'd almost had her, though. _What gives, Bones?_

"I really need to keep my job, Bones," he pleaded.

A rustling sound, perhaps sheets, came across the line, along with an incoherent grumbling. "_In confidence?_"

"Bones, I gotta tell them something that won't get me canned."

"_I'll tell them something different. I wish to tell you the truth_."

He smiled in spite of himself. "Okay, tell me. Between us."

In a quiet voice, his partner said, "_Most Federal officers are hostile or make derogatory remarks towards me. I don't care to deal with that, particularly not now_."

"No one treats you like that here," he offered gently.

"_Because I work with you, and you are an intimidating alpha male with a gun_," she countered. "_Booth, I have remains awaiting me at the lab from a recent dig in Indonesia that I've been looking forward to examining. I do not, however, wish to jeopardize your career. If Cullen sends you with me, I will go. Otherwise, he can go sit and twirl._"

Booth stifled a chuckle. "Sit and _spin_, Bones. I doubt he'll listen to me, but I'll try."

"_You're willing to come with me?_"

"Of course. You're my partner."

"_I'll call you back in five minutes. Begin packing_."

The line went dead and Booth hung up. He stared at his cell phone for a solid minute, contemplating their exchange. _Bones believes I protect her_. Her recognition of his support – that he had her back, no matter what came their way – meant a great deal to him. It was a hard-earned trust, one he wouldn't take lightly. Sure, he'd known she trusted him to keep her physically safe, but emotionally safe? Her walls seemed solid all on their own.

Then again, he'd come to realize that beneath the scientific veneer lay a woman with a great deal of emotion and insecurity as to her worthiness in the eyes of those whom she didn't call colleagues.

The agents around his office showed her respect, and while many did respect her, if only for her incredible ability to assist with murder investigations, some had been brought in line with a stern warning from Booth and pointed glares. Some of the guys had cracked off about him being whipped by a Squint, but this confession of hers made it all worthwhile.

He'd only just thrown a change of underwear and socks into his bag before the phone rang again. Checking the display, he smiled.

"Hi, Bones!"

"_You're coming with me. Will you be driving me to the airport or shall I call a cab?_"

"How'd you pull it off?"

"_It's not important_," she replied evasively. "_I'll see you in an hour?_"

"One hour, Bones. I'll bring coffee."

"_Thanks, Booth._"

He hung up and quickly finished packing his overnight bag. It was a day trip, but he'd learned long ago how quickly such plans could go to shit and leave you stranded in a terminal overnight, or unexpectedly driving a car hundreds of miles to make your son's birthday party.

_Be prepared for anything_. It was a driving principle in his life.

* * *

"_She's blood, flesh and bone  
No tucks or silicone  
She's touch, smell, sight, taste and sound..."_

He wasn't prepared for Vegas.

He'd deluded himself into believing he was. He was prepared at the airport. He was prepared on the flight from D.C. to Vegas. He was prepared as they claimed their rental car at McCarran International. Once on the road, however, everything went to shit. The Strip called with its lights and buzz and he could feel his fingers twitch against the steering wheel, craving a quick detour. _Just one game_, it began in the back of his skull. _Just a few pulls of a lever. No big deal_.

It was a very big deal, and he absolutely refused to walk down that dangerous road back to addiction. The poker chip in his pocket burned against his leg, a talisman and trigger simultaneously.

_Just a few hours and we fly back_, he told himself. _Bones is here. I can be strong for her._

Las Vegas has long been known to cast a spell on people. Foolish, impulsive marriages, lost money, owing the wrong people and meeting a dark end... all par for the course. Las Vegas could find your weaknesses in a split second and it would torture you with them, smiling and ringing its bells.

Their weakness was murder, and fucked if they didn't discover a fresh body not belonging to Roberts out at Mile Marker 15.

"Bureau rules," Zhang said with a smirk. "This one's all yours, pal."

"You're perfectly capable of handling a goddamn murder investigation," Booth snapped.

"I do organized crime. Besides, those remains need the Dr. Brennan treatment anyway. Might as well work together."

Of course, his partner wanted him to handle the case. Her find, her remains, her partner in charge. How could he explain to her why he desperately needed to hit the road and get the hell on the first plane to Washington and never look back? How could he confess the growing dread in his gut? His last gambling confession had cost them... well, whatever they could have been that night, standing in the rain.

She wanted to fly home with the remains. Leave him here in the desert, a starved man in an All-You-Can-Gamble buffet. He'd demanded she stay, fumbled the "maybe there's another body or two" card. His eyes glanced briefly at the laptop screen, where Cam looked concerned. She knew how he'd once been. She knew why he needed an ally, and she gave the final push.

Relief quickly turned to panic as he called Cullen and advised him that they were in the midst of an active investigation and would be remaining in Las Vegas for an indefinite period. _We didn't book you a room_, he was told. _Do you know how hard it is to get a decent hotel last-minute? It's tourist season_.

Without warning, she seized his phone, taking over his call. "I will handle Agent Booth's accommodations," she advised Cullen casually before ending the call.

"What are you doing?"

She waved her phone at him. "My publisher was able to locate a room. It's taken care of."

"Your publisher found a room?" Booth contemplated her wording carefully. "_A_ room? As in single?"

"Yes, Booth. It was exceedingly difficult to locate any room in a suitable facility for tonight and the next several days. My agent is aware that you are with me and I'm certain there will be two beds. It will be fine."

Ha. As they checked into their hotel (featuring a casino, of course, right downstairs), his partner was perplexed at the "King Suite" description provided by the concierge.

"There must be some mistake. I was assured there would be accommodations for both myself and my partner," she stated.

"I'm sure you'll both fit in the bed, Dr. Brennan," the concierge replied.

Booth felt himself flush at the thought. _A bed shared with Bones. This can't be happening. I can't let it happen!_

"We're not a couple. Why do people believe that?" she asked Booth, frowning.

"We'll make it work, Bones," Booth mumbled.

Booth already knew damn well how they'd make it work: he'd sleep on the floor and solve this case as fast as possible. There was no way he could even begin to consider sharing a bed with her. Absolutely not. His mind drifted back to that strange conversation weeks ago, when he'd put an end to his bedroom acrobatics with Rebecca.

"_I'm sure Rebecca's not your only option for satisfying biological urges_."

Mind, meet gutter. Every single time he pictured it. But she hadn't meant anything by it. It was merely a scientific fact. He knew his partner considered him attractive and thus, assumed he could rather easily find a mate.

_No sharing a bed_. _No gambling_. Two easy steps to surviving this clusterscrew.

* * *

"_But somehow I can't believe  
That anything should happen  
I know where I belong  
And nothing's gonna happen..."_

He was sharing a bed with his partner. He'd agreed to it. Why the hell had he agreed to it? Oh, right: she'd carefully presented a list of rational reasons why his intentions of taking the floor or the chairs in their sitting area (_Their room had a goddamn sitting area and kitchen! How the fuck was he going to expense this?_) and then, for good measure, threatened to fly home and leave the room to him, should he persist in his arguments.

"_How are you going to remain in optimal physical condition for this case if you're going to risk aggravating your back condition?_" she'd asked. "_Do I get a gun, in case you're unable to protect me in the field, as is your preference?_" She'd even measured the damn bed and concluded that they could maintain 3.8 inches minimum between their bodies, thus ensuring comfort and propriety_ "for the sake of your Catholic beliefs_."

Goddamn her brain. It was sexy and incredible and had wrangled him into a potentially disastrous situation.

Her same logic whammy had conned him into allowing her to buy him extra clothing. Some sort of nonsense about how he could expense the clothes in lieu of accommodations and break even, so what did it matter if she paid now? He'd restrained her to a couple t-shirts and pairs of jeans, although he'd indicated that they'd need different clothing for their undercover gig, which was being picked up in the morning.

Another thing she'd talked him into, against his instincts.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. She wasn't wrong: there was a good six inches between them right now. _This is nothing. It's just two friends sharing a bed. No big deal_. She'd chosen silk pants and a tank top for sleepwear on their shopping trip, a fairly modest ensemble except that the silk clung to her curves and made him acutely aware of how stunning she truly was.

His own words replayed in his mind: "_It may be all anthropology to you, but there are certain people you just can't sleep with. I mean, you can pretend that it's just sex. You can lie to yourself, and you can say that it's all good, but there's just too many strings and too much at stake, you know? Too much to lose._"

She was far too much to lose. Her friendship, her understanding of him, the _real_ him, was of immeasurable importance to him. Even today, when they'd stepped onto the casino floor and the reality of the _call_, the _need_ in his skull, came crashing down, she'd known why without a single word of explanation.

"_Talk? You can barely breathe!_"

"_I'm fine. Just trust me_."

She'd known better, her hand reflexively smacking his as his reflexively reached for the Keno goods. No condemnation, no judgment – just a voice of reason, helping him remain in check. It was what he'd desperately sensed he'd need when she suggested flying home with the remains.

His head turned slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of his sleeping partner. She'd curled up on her side, facing away from him, but her tousled hair and the pale skin of her back soothed his frazzled nerves. _No more bells. No more cards shuffling_. He would close his eyes and sleep. Here. Beside her.

She'd saved him from this addiction before. She'd do it again.

* * *

"_'Cause she's so high  
High above me, she's so lovely  
She's so high  
Like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc, or Aphrodite  
She's so high  
High above me..."_

What the hell was he thinking?

It was the question that echoed on the entire drive to Noland's gym the next morning. Beside him, his partner sat in a little black dress that pushed her cleavage up and hugged her hips and basically could make a grown man fall to his knees and weep. The little black dress his dumb ass had chosen for her.

Her hair fell in loose curls, grazing her cheeks lightly. He envied it. She was his partner and he'd never jeopardize that, but in this moment, he ached to touch her. But not yet. Not without their intended audience to justify it.

She stumbled slightly in her heels as she slipped out of the car, a faint curse escaping her lips. She adjusted the hem of her dress in back, which only drew Booth's attention to the view from the rear. That lab coat did not do her justice!

_Do not grope your partner. Do not grope your partner_...

"You ready, Roxie?"

She smiled anxiously. "Sure, Tony."

He moved up beside her, an arm wrapped around her shoulder as he held open the door. The scent of sweat and the faint iron twinge of blood assailed his nose as his partner stepped inside. She wobbled slightly on her heels – she hadn't yet processed that she couldn't take her usual long strides in these shoes – and leaned slightly into him for support.

"How does anyone actually walk in these things?" she complained.

_Showtime_. Slipping into character, he did the first thing he knew any almost-fiance of Roxie's would do.

"Well, you know, them boots, they ain't made for walkin', sweetheart!" he teased, punctuating it with a playful slap of her ass.

_Oh dear God, she feels amazing. Get a grip, Booth! Wait, no, no more grip, Booth!_

"Okay, that was completely over the top," she cautioned him.

Defense time. "Oh, you know, you play your part and I'll play mine."

And she played it. She slipped into that seductive moll persona and it clung to her like that damn dress. When Noland challenged his physical shape, she immediately ran a territorial hand down his chest and wrapped herself around him.

"Oh yeah, my man's in great shape, believe me."

Great shape and struggling to fight off a hard on in front of several macho guys itching for reasons to tear him down. She was perfectly in character, not a trace of anthropologist in sight.

"Easy there, honey," he muttered quietly. _Tony doesn't want to throw you up against a wall in front of these fine criminals_.

"Well, let's see it, Army. Show us those moves that made you so famous," Nick goaded.

"Yeah, go ahead, Tiger. Show these clowns!"

She slapped his ass. Slapped. His. Ass. _Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners_.

Fighting his primal urges, he showed off for Noland and Nick. Just enough to prove himself, pave the way a little for their real reason for visiting. Joe seemed neither impressed nor unimpressed, but he believed. Even Booth could tell his initial hesitation about sharing the details on the fights was more for show.

Booth balked at the price Noland tossed out, but his partner floored him again. With a shimmy in her hips, she approached the boxing legend and pulled a roll of bills from her cleavage.

_How the hell am I going to sleep next to her tonight_?

Number in hand, they slipped out into the sunshine, where Bones ran her fingers through her curls, lifting them off the nape of her neck. The heat was brutal and the fedora was beginning to gather a ring of sweat inside. It looked damn cool, though, and besides, they were surely being watched from within. With a grin, he held open the passenger car door for his partner; she, in turn, kissed his cheek and ran a finger along his jaw before settling into her seat.

_Clara Bow_, she explained. Booth made a note to buy several films upon their return home.

* * *

"_First class and fancy free  
She's high society  
She's got the best of everything_

_What could a guy like me_  
_Ever really offer?_  
_She's perfect as she can be_  
_Why should I even bother?"_

That night, he nearly broke.

The tension of sharing a room with her – the image of her in that damn dress burned into his mind – and the siren's song of the rolling dice and the whistles of slots had taken its toll. After an hour of worrying his poker chip beside his sleeping partner, he gave in.

_Just one game. Normal people can gamble and walk away. No big deal_.

In his mind, he rationalized it like he did his drinking. His father had been a violent, shitbag alcoholic, and he knew that genetics insisted he was at high risk of falling prey to the same sickness that drove fists into his childhood face. He had a temper if he drank too much, although it usually turned inwards, resulting in a pity parade and hammering headache the next morning. But he still drank, and he could be responsible about it. Why couldn't gambling be the same? He'd been clear for over two years now.

The monster, it talked a good game. It always had.

He slipped out from beneath the covers, already having concocted a lie for her. _Thirsty. Need ice. Need a drink_. Easy lies, ones he could sleepily mutter. In the back of his head, the monster whispered. _One game. One roll. Prove you're in control by controlling the game_.

Jeans on. Key card in pocket. He pulled forty dollars from his wallet and left the rest behind. Because he was in control, right? An addict wouldn't leave his bank card behind.

He made it to the elevator bank before his rational brain joined the argument.

_What the hell are you doing? Do you really think you can have the equivalent of "one drink" and walk away unscathed?_

The smell of cigar smoke filled his nostrils. Maybe he was having a seizure. Could addiction cause seizures?

_Why do you even want to go back there? Back to that life? _

It had been a lousy existence. Being broke; bouncing his rent check; losing visitation time with Parker when he missed his support payments – that was the world of Gambler Booth. And yet, he'd clung to it desperately, because to admit addiction was to admit facing an enemy and losing the war.

Until _she_ came along.

Booth slumped against the wall, staring at the shining elevator lobby doors. _Work the program. Work the urge. Why do you want to gamble? What's really going on, beneath the chatter?_ He closed his eyes and he could hear it all. The cheers; the busker-dealers, seeking fresh blood; cards flicked by a trained wrist. The heartbeat of the casino.

_I miss the feeling of winning_.

The moment he thought it, he knew it was the truth. His professional life was pretty fantastic these days: they had the best solve rate the Bureau had ever seen, and he was getting a pay hike, or so the rumor mill assured him. His son was incredible, and they had a fantastic bond. But his personal life... It was a series of failures, wasn't it? Rebecca had rejected his proposal and although the sex was still great years later, the love was long gone. Things with Tessa had gone to shit. No other prospects had come forward, no matter what Bones believed his alpha male self was capable of. Hell, _she'd_ rejected him!

_What about Cam?_

What about her? She was a dear friend of many years, a past flame he'd parted amicably from when he'd headed to Washington and she'd gone to New York. She was his lover again, and while they shared an intimacy beyond mere friends with benefits, he ultimately sensed things would fall apart again down the line. Cam was just... easy. She liked him. She enjoyed his company. He enjoyed hers. She valued her career as much as he did.

He didn't love her. Not like that. Not anymore.

_Maybe being an addict is a part of why no one wants you_. Ice clinked in a glass somewhere and the monster whispered. _Why bother resisting if it won't make a difference? When will you be in Vegas again? Have a little fun. What's forty dollars_?

The bills were burning a hole in his back pocket now and Booth stepped outside of himself, or so it seemed, because his finger pressed the Down button, but he couldn't feel it. His foot tapped against the tiles, but he couldn't make it take a step backwards. _Get it together, Booth. This isn't about a game. This is about emotional needy bullshit that dice can't solve_.

The elevator chimed, the right-hand door's indicator flashing. Flashing lights. Bells. _So close_. The doors opened, beckoning him into the empty vessel. _Straight down to hell, Booth. Come, join us_.

Her face came to mind and he stopped just outside of the door. _Bones_. She would be so disappointed in him. She'd hide it, of course, but she spoke often of his strength of character, of his determination. Caving after two days in Vegas seemed pitiful somehow.

_And you wonder why you can't find or keep a decent woman. Look at yourself._

Hadn't that been the crux of his decision to recover? Hadn't he wanted to be a good enough man for her?

_I'm still not good enough for her. I never will be_.

It was defeatist and pitying, but it was palpable, a knot in his stomach that he pressed his palm against, urging the pain to relent.

_Go back to her. _

The monster was angry. Rational Booth was winning.

A door opened down the hall and Booth edged back towards the wall. Pressing his eyes shut, he thought of Parker, of Pops, of Bones. He couldn't let them all down, not again. He had to end this, once and for all.

"Booth?"

.

"_She comes to speak to me  
I freeze immediately  
'Cause what she says sounds so unreal..." _

_.  
_

His eyes flew open at the sound of her voice. Her hair was messy, her feet bare. It was as if she'd walked straight from bed to his side.

"You should be sleeping, Bones."

A step closer. She rubbed her left eye.

"So should you."

"I know."

They remained silently in the lobby. Booth noticed that her tank top had slid up slightly on the left side, revealing a thin line of her stomach between the blue satin layers. Without considering his action, his hand moved to tug the shirt down and preserve her modesty. Her body shuddered slightly beneath his touch.

"Why are you dressed?" she asked.

"I shouldn't be."

She nodded slightly, studying his disheveled t-shirt and yesterday's jeans. Booth wondered if she could see through him, see to his bones. Were they good bones, solid, strong? Were they gelatinous, pitted and devoid of marrow? Who was he? If she knew, she wasn't telling.

Her hand reached out for his, and it was only then that he realized he had clenched them both into fists.

"Come back to bed, Booth."

He accepted her hand and she led him back down the hall, past seven doors and a fire hose cabinet to their room. She halted at the door, shaking her head.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I left without my card," she explained.

He pulled his from his pocket, swiping the reader for her. "That's not like you. Forgetting things, I mean."

As he shut the door behind himself and threw the bolt back on, he heard her sigh.

"You were gone," she said quietly.

She offered no further explanation and he demanded none. He was too weary to be strong.

She turned her back, affording him time to change into the shorts he'd chosen for sleeping. As he pulled the covers down, she joined him, lightly tapping the touch lamp beside her and plunging the room back into darkness. The two of them stared at the ceiling, arms folded identically upon their chests. It was almost comical, except that Booth wasn't amused with himself. He was ashamed.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

Her question caught him off guard. "Huh?"

"You had the urge to gamble. Why didn't you wake me?"

"I didn't – "

"Booth, please don't lie to me. You left your wallet, but took the cash."

He sighed. "I don't ask for help. It's never... I just don't."

Silence.

"I don't either," she whispered at last. "But you help me."

"You're my partner."

"You're my partner," she echoed.

Double standards. She pointed them out frequently. He waited for her to do so again, but she surprised him.

"I'm not going to judge you," she told him. "If you ask."

Silence. He was a coward. He wanted to ask, wanted her to tell him he would be okay, that he would pull through this damn case and make it back to Washington still in control. But he couldn't. _Once bitten_...

"Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask a favour?"

"Sure, Bones."

She rolled onto her side, facing him and he tilted his head to meet her gaze. She was worried. She shouldn't have to worry about him.

"I would feel better if I could hold your hand while sleeping," she told him.

"Hold your hand?"

"I didn't like waking up and finding you gone. I'd rather know you were departing."

There was a vulnerability in her voice, but more than that, a kindness. She was asking_ for_ him. She knew he couldn't. It was an out.

"I'm sorry, Bones. I didn't mean to upset you."

He turned over onto his side, facing her now. Across the space between them, she extended her right hand. His left hand took hers, fingers interlacing loosely. She squeezed it lightly, nestling her head into her pillow. A large curl tumbled across her face, sweeping over one eye.

"Goodnight, Booth."

With his free hand, he brushed the hair back lovingly. "'Night, Bones."

The monster was silent.

* * *

"_But somehow I can't believe  
That anything should happen  
I know where I belong  
And nothing's gonna happen..."_

The red dress was worse than the black one.

This time, she'd chosen her evening wear, and it was a vast improvement over her pick the day before. The red silk hung cloyingly over her breasts, beckoning a wandering eye. The only thing restraining him was his gratitude for her intervention the night before. He'd woken up to find her hand pulling lightly from his, a sheepish smile on her face.

"Shower," she murmured.

He'd reluctantly allowed her to slip from his grasp, pressing his palm to his face as she closed the bathroom door. He could smell her hand cream on his skin. It was comforting.

They'd talked him onto the card for the night, as planned with Walt. He should have anticipated the switch-up last minute. Squash the nosy newcomer. Test him. Break him. And they would have, without her genius skills. She'd saved him once again.

She'd also bet on him. To flush Nick out, she'd claimed for her first reason. She'd remained silent about the second one. It lingered in the back of his mind that final night in Vegas, along with the sight of her breasts half-falling out of her dress during the fight. Oh, yeah: once that adrenaline ground to a halt in his body, his brain reminded him of that still frame.

His entire body hurt the next morning, the showering doing little to loosen the knots in every muscle. He was a mess of bruises, his nose thankfully not broken. She'd checked the night before and he'd cursed up a storm before settling into bed, her hand seeking his and holding fast through the night.

Nothing had been said. There was so much he wished he could tell her. But he did have one thing he could speak about. An answer he needed to have.

"So what was the second reason?"

"What?"

"You never told me the second reason you bet on me," he elaborated.

She looked uncomfortable as she finished packing her bag. Booth couldn't understand why it was such a troubling question.

"Yeah," she said at last. "It was... silly."

He kept his voice light, hoping to reassure her. "Aw come on, you know, try me."

Her answer was definitely not what he expected, and yet, he should have expected it from her.

"Beginner's luck. I haven't lost at anything since I've been here, so..." A hesitation. "Well, I..." She sighed, a brief exhalation laced with fear and sadness. "I figured if I bet on you then..."

"Then I couldn't lose," he finished.

"Sounds silly, right?"

"Sounds familiar. Thanks."

"You're welcome."

There was electricity in the air, the crackle of an impending storm. Impossible within the walls of this room, but the spark was there. Her heart was so big, so kind and yet, she never comprehended the magnitude of her gestures. To her, it was simply what was done. It made her overtures all the more meaningful. No ego, no need for recognition. Bones simply was beautiful, inside and out.

She was in a class all her own.

"You ready?" she asked.

_Stop torturing yourself, Booth. That ship sailed long ago. Stop looking for it on the horizon_.

"Yeah, let's go."

"_'Cause she's so high_

_High above me..."_

* * *

_**Well, what did you think? I've always had a lot of questions about this episode. Season two is a hell of a lot of fun to pick apart scenes from, and this episode is loaded. As you can see, I'm Team One Room Theory on this. I also don't believe we saw the full extent of how difficult being in Vegas would be for him, especially after seeing Frankie.**  
_

_**You've been quiet, dear readers. I assume the holidays have everyone rushing in and out of FF. Call me needy, but I would truly love it if you would take a moment to leave a review. Writing is a difficult thing, but the reward is knowing people are enjoying the hard work (plus you can keep me on track and spank me for writing lousy stuff). As an extra incentive, when the reviews hit 101, no matter when that is, I'm posting a bonus chapter as a thank you. It's a song we know well. ;)  
**_

_**Happy New Year! I'll catch you on the flipside of the calendar with a Bard update and see you here next week (or perhaps sooner). Next up: season five!  
**_


	7. Hot Blooded

**_AN: Um, wow guys! Thank you so much! The last chapter's probably my favourite so far and it seems we all agree. We also seem to agree that as much fun as Buck and Wanda can be, we all miss Tony and Roxie. _  
**

**_We've sailed over 101 reviews in less than 24 hours and I am touched! I am also in possession of your promised extra chapter. I'll see you next Sunday with a season five story, but for now, let's celebrate the new year with our couple's song.  
_**

**_Tag To: Two Bodies In The Lab  
_**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Bones or the Foreigner classic "Hot Blooded". I do have a tendency to sing it to one of my cats, Kali, who thinks I'm a silly idiot but purrs anyway as I dance her around. What a good pet she is!  
_**

* * *

**Hot Blooded (Foreigner)**

The call chills my blood and I nearly drop my phone in shock.

"Someone tried to take out Dr. Brennan."

"Take out? What, you mean _kill her_?"

"Shots fired. She's fine, Booth. She asked us to let you know."

I grit my teeth. "And why isn't she letting me know herself? What's wrong?"

The cop on the other end laughs. "Because she's bossing around forensics and refusing to go to the hospital. Could you maybe convince her?"

I shake my head and take down the address he gives me. Why am I not surprised? Bones would solve her own murder if she could.

_Murder_. The word reminds me of the seriousness of the situation. Someone took shots at my partner on the same day two bodies arrived at the lab, one being an infamous mobster.

_No one is taking another shot at her. No one_.

* * *

By the time I've reached the scene, I'm told she's sped off towards the Jeffersonian, ordering forensics to retrieve the bullets aimed at her skull. After throwing my weight around enough to ensure the techs know how goddamn serious I am about finding the shooter, I hit the sirens and floor it to the lab. Sure enough, there she is, on the platform in her lab coat. Working.

She won't stop working, even in danger. The woman lacks a self-preservation instinct.

"Look, whoever killed these victims wants to make sure you don't finish your investigation."

Defiantly, she replies, "Hundreds of criminals would like me to stop what I do. Are you suggesting that I just give up my career?"

I fight the urge to boss her ass out of the lab. It's pointless; I've learned that the hard way. Bones must be convinced that a course of action is her own idea.

"Just... Be reasonable."

"Fine. Logic suggests that the shooter is involved in one of these cases, so I should find out who killed them before he tries to shoot me again."

She walks away, examining a computer monitor. I hate her intelligence at times like this.

"Did forensics recover the bullets intended for me?" she asks.

_Bullets intended for me._ Those particular words in that combination make me sick to my stomach. "Ballistics is running tests on them right now."

Another question, rapid-fire. "And have you picked up the suspect in the young woman's murder?"

"Hollings. I don't want to spook him until we have enough evidence but I've got guys watching him."

"Did you get a list of women missing age 18 – "

"18 to 25, yes, they're on your server," I interrupt. Softening my voice as best I can manage, I reassure her. "Bones, everyone is doing their job."

"Okay, I'll see if any of them match the victim," Angela says, settling at a computer. I can tell she's on my side, but has likely lost her own argument prior to my arrival.

"What about the Romano family? Hodgins says they were feuding with the Cuginis."

I have to go there. I'm about to piss her off, but there's no avoiding it.

"Kenton has pulled all files related to the case and all mob activity six years ago. Bones, there is one other person we have to look at: your date."

She's trying to remain casual, but the tone feels forced. "Well, I spoke with him, Booth. He was in his car in traffic. And why would he want to kill me?"

"Why would somebody want to kill your victim over there?" I counter. Her discomfort is unfortunately necessary, but it still makes me feel shitty. "Look Bones," I continue, "I know it's hard for you to admit that you might be wrong about something, but I really don't care about your feelings right now. I'm more concerned with your life, so they're bringing your date in for interrogation. Grab your coat."

"I'm working," she insists.

"Bones! I'm not letting you out of my sight until I find out who is trying to kill you."

Her eyes meet mine and I see a begrudging admission of defeat. She's going to hate me as much as the time I had Homeland Security detain her, but I don't give a shit right now. I have to keep her safe. I have to protect her.

It's what partners do.

At every turn though, she fights me. I drag her to the Hoover every time I'm called back there by Kenton. Everywhere we walk, my hand is on the small of her back, ready to pull her against me and shield her body with my own, should a shot ring out. It wouldn't be the first time I'd thrown myself in the line of fire and while a part of me senses this recklessness with my mortality isn't wise as a father, my nature is to step in harm's way and let others run to safety.

I can live with a gunshot (maybe). I can't live with watching someone I care for being hurt or killed if I have an opportunity to stop it. I can't have any more blood on my hands.

* * *

Standing there in her pristine starched collar and sweater, she's almost a teenager. Perhaps a good Catholic girl on her way to school, although she'd hand me my ass if I ever drew the comparison aloud.

This is definitely not how I expected the night to go. My brain was thinking TV, popcorn, shoo my workaholic partner to bed and keep watch throughout the night from her couch. These are basic plans, adaptable to any situation – except for an evening with Bones. She doesn't have a working television. Who lives without a _television_?

Rummaging through her music is a desperate move to avoid boredom and the lingering awkwardness from me interrogating her date and appointing myself the Kevin Costner to her Whitney Houston. I suspect the music of the _Whosawhatsit _tribe of some country will be my only option and the first rack of CDs is loaded with throat singers and bird chirpers or whatever the hell they are. But once I wander from the work shelf, I learn she has alright taste for the first few dozen titles I scan. The jazz is particularly impressive, and her passion for it leaves me in awe. How had I not known this about her before?

"I love it!" she enthuses. "The artist has to live within a set tonal structure and trust his own instincts to find his way out of an infinite maze of musical possibilities, and the great ones do."

I know a decent jazz bar in the city. Maybe sometime, we'll swing over to celebrate closing a case.

Then, I spot it: Foreigner. Mind blown... until my dumb ass figures out that this is like that _Sesame Street_ game and this is the thing that doesn't belong. A relic from an old relationship, I assume. But hey, screw it! I play it anyway, despite her "How did that get there?" protests.

"What, please! Everyone loves Foreigner! 'Hot Blooded' – talk about a guilty pleasure!"

I jokingly goad her into singing, figuring she'll sidestep a bit with me. What do I get? Her belting the song at the top of her lungs, joining me for air guitar and drums – a little rock star party. So much for it being some guy's forgotten arena rock treasure!

.

"_Well, I'm hot blooded, check it and see  
I got a fever of a hundred and three  
Come on baby, do you do more than dance?  
I'm hot blooded, I'm hot blooded..."_

_.  
_

She's such a serious woman most of the time that seeing Bones just break out the grin and cut loose is incredible. She's so gorgeous, it's not fair. I'm supposed to be looking after her and all I can think of is spinning "I Want To Know What Love Is" next and talking her into a slow dance. Nothing unprofessional – just two people with a complicated almost-sex history having a slow dance late at night.

Who am I kidding? Rocker Brennan here is my dream girl. How many women appreciate the cheesy thrill of Foreigner with as much gusto as she does?

The phone rings and I remain lost in the music for about twenty seconds, which is how long it takes me to realize that Mr. _Cybersex Dick431_ David is on the phone. Creepy bastard. What sort of nice guy needs to find women online? Bones, I sorta understand: she lives at work. Aside from screwing Hodgins (laughable thought) or Zack (even more laughable), what other options does she have?

Me. But not really. It would never work and we have more than professional respect and lust between us now. I value her friendship, our partnership. It's made me a better agent and, more importantly, a better man. It's not something I can afford to risk.

But oh, how the gambler in me calls!

.

"_You don't have to read my mind, to know what I have in mind  
Honey you oughta know  
Now you move so fine, let me lay it on the line  
I wanna know what you're doin' after the show_

_Now it's up to you, we can make a secret rendezvous_  
_Just me and you, I'll show you lovin' like you never knew..."_

_.  
_

She hangs up the phone and it's just us and suddenly, that "it would never work" becomes "it would absolutely work if you found a loophole in the FBI fraternization policy". Dangerous thinking, sponsored by the less brilliant head on my body. God, why does she have to be so damn beautiful and brilliant and quietly kind?

I need a drink. Not booze – someone's out to kill my partner, after all – but my throat is dry and my palms are sweaty. I'm burning up with possibilities for the night ahead and I'm pretty sure the nuns would beat me with ten rulers simultaneously for the thoughts I'm thinking.

"You got a soda, juice?"

She offers to get me a drink, but no way. Not only is she not my servant, but I need a few moments away from her faint perfume and that shy smile. This is fast becoming intense. Maybe it's the threat of death; maybe it's memories of tequila-soaked chat and what I've learned about her since. Either way, I'm feeling far too emotional, and that's not going to help her if some bastard decides to take another shot.

.

"_But you've got to give me a sign, come on girl, some kind of sign..."_

_.  
_

I draw a deep breath as I step into her kitchen. _Alright, God. You need to help a guy out. You can't keep putting me in this position where the woman's in a halo of light or the proverbial sun shines out of her posterior. She's so different from every woman I've dated. Is that a good thing? Is she interested? Should I tell her I've never quite let go of kissing her again, or do I keep my mouth shut?_

I reach for the fridge door and hesitate as she calls out the location of her glasses. _Give me a sign, God. Help me do the right thing for her. For us._

And God says, _Sure, Seeley. I got your sign._

My arm craning for the cupboard, I open the fridge door and everything goes black.

* * *

_**Goddamn the stupid bomb! Who knows where the night could have taken them? I have to say, though: injured rescuer Booth? So hot. Gah. Right in the goddamn feels, every time.**_

_**Happy New Year, everyone! If you're a follower of The Bard, I should be updating Wednesday. If you're subscribed to my one-shot series (and I suggest you do, since at least two of these chapters reference one-shots over there), I'll be posting the "Brennan Vegas stripper" story soon. This week, I hope!  
**_

_**I also hope to have a playlist ready to stream for this fic next Sunday so you, too, can listen to the mix tape.  
**_


	8. Simply Irresistible

**_AN: Here we are, in season five... The Bard readers among you are already aware of the episode we're diving into today. We're going to examine a possible "what happened next?" too._  
**

**_This is the longest chapter yet for this fic, but I'm pretty sure it'll be worth it. You'll tell me, won't you?  
_**

**_Tag To: A Night At The Bones Museum  
_**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Bones, nor do I own the lyrics to Robert Palmer's gloriously fun hit, "Simply Irresistible". Dialogue borrowed for context and no infringement is intended so hey, don't sue, alright? I also don't own Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing In The Dark".  
_**

* * *

**Simply Irresistible (Robert Palmer)**

"Director Hacker wants to have sex with me."

The words suck the air out of his lungs and immediately, he's thinking of ways to make his smarmy boss pay. The guy's barely more than a functioning idiot and now, he's sexually harassing his partner. _And the woman you love_, his brain reminds him immediately. _But you don't talk about that, do you?_

"Whoa, he said that?" he replies. "Wait, and it's _Assistant_ Director."

Maybe the guy is yanking her chain in revenge for her inability to address him by the proper title? No, that's wishful thinking, given the whole _Andrew_ stunt he pulled earlier in Booth's office.

"Well he said dinner, but the implication was clear."

Ah, Bones: blunt and to the point. Something Hacker probably won't take well.

"Okay, well all you've got to do is just turn him down. You know, be very polite and nobody gets hurt." _And then, you come out to dinner with me_, he adds silently.

"He's charming and good looking. Why would I turn him down?"

_What?_ Booth glances at her face and realizes she's actually interested in _Hacker_. Thinks _Hacker_ is attractive. _The guy's face is somewhere between human and Pug!_ Hell, he'll never live this down at the office – it'll be Sully 2.0, only worse. He latches onto her word choice and immediately feels a defensive rant brewing. _Are you saying I'm not attractive and charming, Bones? What the hell is wrong with me?_

"Why? Because he's my boss, okay? It'd just be awkward. I'm the guy who's got to report to him, Bones."

_And I refuse to not only work for a terrible investigator who schmoozed his way into his job, but also watch him date the woman I want_.

They slip into crime scene investigation mode, him jotting notes and asking questions (and strangely hungry after the "Christmas" smell of the mummy, which is disgusting but true). In the back of his head, he's seeing Hacker and his over-polished shoes and bad jokes trying to impress Bones, and it's bringing his blood to a boil. What about the "no fraternization policy"? Sully had been an acceptable stretch – after all, he hadn't been a direct partner or boss to the Jeffersonian team. But Hacker most definitely_ is _a direct boss in the chain of command.

As if on cue, Sweets shows up at the crime scene. Booth swears he can smell drama between the two of them from a fifty-mile radius. The kid's always showing up at his office or the diner right on time to stick his nose in adult business. Thankfully, the shrink's on a mission: getting his girlfriend reinstated so he can get laid sometime soon. Booth delights in calling him out on it. The kid squirms a little and Booth knows he's nailed it. _Not so fun when it's you, huh?_

"I'd consider it a personal favor, Dr. Brennan," Sweets almost begs.

"Ouch. Personal favors are kind of like penalty shots: you kind of have to take them. Unlike dinner requests, which you are_ totally open to decline_," he adds, hoping his partner will, for once, take a hint.

She doesn't. She's really going to accept dinner with his boss. And Booth is going to accept Cam's offer an hour later over text for a bottle of scotch she has lying around that she magically doesn't need, even if she does come right out and say she told him so. His little chat with Hacker later that day seals it.

"Oh by the way, did Temperance mention that I asked her out?"

"Uh yeah, yeah, I think she may have said something like that," he replies, hoping the discussion will end.

"I just want to make sure there's nothing going on between the two of you. I wouldn't want to get in the middle."

So very gracious, considering he went ahead and asked her already. Who did that? Who asked out a woman his colleague might be dating without getting the facts straight first? Desperate guys with no personality did that. Guys like Andrew Hacker.

"No, nothing whatsoever. It's strictly professional."

"You sure?"

_On her end, I'm absolutely sure. Mine... well, I'll just ignore that so I don't beat the shit out of you in frustration. I like my job_.

"Yeah, positive."

"Alright then. I'll let you get back to pissing off Nobel Laureates."

He clenches his fist as his boss leaves. He hasn't felt this angry about a guy Bones has dated since his brother. Only now, it's worse: he knows he loves her, heart and soul.

* * *

He can't help himself: he runs a check on Hacker, via Charlie. The guy owes him a favour from three years ago, a huge one, and he's called it in to gossip about his boss to his partner. It's juvenile, petty and _absolutely warranted_. It is.

"So I did a little checking on Hacker, by the way. 42, never married. Just in case you're interested."

His grip on the steering wheel tightens as his partner replies, "Late marriage is often an indicator of a discerning goal-oriented individual. Why is this a problem for you?"

_Because you and me, this is special. It's always had the potential to go somewhere. We've just been stubborn idiots for years. But I've let that go. I've erased the lines. If you'd just see it too, then maybe_...

"Because he's my boss. That's all. And if you're going to go out with Hacker, then you guys are going to talk about me."

It's not a lie. It's just half the truth. It's not like he can tell her now, driving around on a case that _Hey, this sounds crazy, but I love you and I promise it's not a brain tumor coma talking_. She isn't someone who can be blitzed like that. Cam is bang on: he has to be sure and do everything right, or risk her closing off forever.

"Why would I talk about you?" she asks.

"Because I'm what you got in common."

"If you're concerned that I'd discuss any perceived shortcomings – "

He nearly jams the brakes in shock. "Shortcomings? What shortcomings?"

"Honestly Booth, Andrew and I are attracted to each other. I'm sure neither of us will think of you for a second."

It's a dagger in his heart. Does she really feel nothing for him beyond friendship? Has he misinterpreted her book as some secret revelation of a life she longs to share with him? These are the thoughts that keep him awake that night, tossing and turning with her smile hovering beneath his eyelids.

_I need more time to tell her_. But she's slipping out of reach, and it's all he can do to not drive to her apartment and lay himself on the line in a desperate bid for her affections.

"Choose me," he whispers. "Why won't you choose me?"

* * *

Of course the guy's in his office. Of course.

Booth is well aware of the "drinks" the night before, courtesy of Angela having some compulsive need to rub salt in his invisible wounds. He's still mulling over her motivations when he rounds the corner and sees Hacker.

"Hey Boss."

_Come to tell me you're being transferred to Alaska? How nice! Stay warm._

"How's the case going?"

Booth suddenly clues in. _Please, tell me he's not here for dating advice. Please, please do not do this to me, God. I can't. I will have to duct tape his mouth shut and toss him in the dumpsters out back. _

"Not solved yet... but uh, you're not here for that, are ya?"

"I just wanted to say you're doing a great job. Truly exceptional work."

Hacker is still playing the denial game. _What is he, twelve?_

"Sir, if we could just kill the compliments and just say what's on your mind, I'd appreciate that."

If he's going to have to make nice during a discussion of the schmuck's date with Temperance Brennan, he wants it done and over with so he can bash his head off his desk and induce amnesia for the whole affair.

"Right. Let's drop the Agent-Boss thing for a minute," Hacker says.

"Sure."

Booth wonders if this means he can inform Hacker that he is a walking enema bag, but ultimately decides against it. Hacker likely can't define enema. His wit would be wasted.

"It's been a while since I've met someone, you know, special... Aw hell, I just don't want to make a fool out of myself if Temperance is only going out with me because I'm the boss."

Yep, he's twelve. Booth suspects that the last time this guy had a date, it was his cousin on the night of the Senior Prom.

"Right. Listen sir, Bones doesn't feel the pressure to act or do or say anything that she doesn't want to. And no one, _no one_ can make her. That's what makes her..." _Amazing. Enthralling. Irresistible._ "_Bones,_" he finishes aloud.

Much to his chagrin, this seems to be the pep talk his boss needs to summon the _cojones_ to ask for a second date or whatever. "Okay. Thanks, really."

"No problem," he mumbles, spinning his chair away so he can express his revulsion without being busted.

And then, his boss twists the dagger lingering in his heart from the other day.

"Listen, next time you're at the Founding Fathers, you should try the meatloaf with the egg. You'll like it. Tastes _nothing_ like the human eye."

He has no response. What words are there for betrayal on this scale? _ I'm sure neither of us will think of you for a second._ That's what she'd said, right? He'd made one simple request: don't talk about your partner to his boss. Given his (admittedly secret) feelings for her, Booth really doesn't think he's asked for something unreasonable, nor does he feel it's something that she may have confused or misunderstood.

Perhaps he could forgive her for disclosing, say, his preference in scotch, or his favourite book (her second one, _Cross Bones_; the first reminds him of their year apart and the third reminds him of real murders). Details he would disclose to his boss, should they come up in conversation, are easily forgiven. He understands her tendency to answer without censorship. But to disclose a personal (and embarrassing) story? It stings, like falling into a vat of lime juice covered in paper cuts previously salted. Human margarita level of betrayal.

_Well, I've had enough. _Maybe he is just a friend, just her partner. Maybe that is all he'll ever be to her. Booth knows only this: he is _no one's_ punchline. Not even hers.

A wicked thought comes to mind as he notices it's lunch hour and he passes by the kitchen en route to his car. He's about to do the floor a favour and get his point across with scientific evidence for the forensic anthropologist. Opening the fridge, he smiles. At least some things can still be relied on these days.

He spends the fifteen minutes between the Hoover and the Jeffersonian contemplating his approach. Direct? Blunt? Mean? Artificially saccharine? He doesn't want to piss her off, but he _does_ want to impress upon her how he defines and sees partnership, since they no longer seem to share that appreciation.

Walking into her office, he plunks Agent Laramie's hard-boiled egg on her desk and swallows back as much anger as he can.

"What's this?" she asks.

"What does it look like?"

"An egg."

"And when was the last time that you recently talked about an egg?" he presses.

Her response is underwhelming. "Oh."

"_Oh_?"

"Well, he asked me what was good to eat and I mentioned that you liked the meatloaf – "

"Stop right there," he interrupts angrily. "You said you weren't going to talk about me and you talked about me."

"Well, I didn't mean to talk about you. I told him I didn't want to but you know, I like that story and I guess it just popped out."

She states this casually, as if she'd merely walked away with his pen instead of her own after a paperwork marathon. _For all of your intelligence, you can be utterly oblivious, Bones_!

"Popped out? I don't need Hacker knowing about my mother's meatloaf!"

His anger catches her off guard and he detects a slight flinching of her frame. "Why are you so upset?"

_She really doesn't see it_. For all of his fear that she will sense the shift inside of him, see straight through to his terrified heart, it turns out that he's maintained the illusion of pure friendship after all. He doesn't know whether to yell at her or lunge over the desk and kiss her until she's too breathless to speak of his secrets to _anyone_ ever again.

"Because... What goes on between us is _ours_."

_Ours_. He loves the sound of that. He frequently imagines all of the wonders that they could call _ours_: a home; a relationship; a child, maybe. But she's still mystified.

"Come on, Booth. You must have told a lot of people the meatloaf story. Right?"

His look says _absolutely not_. Her face falls as she finally comprehends. In that moment, he forgives her, even though his head is pounding with a migraine that won't quit. One glimpse of that fragility lurking behind her blue-grey irises and he's reduced to Jello-O.

_No harm, no foul_. It's not worth holding a grudge and besides, he senses she will never betray his confidences again.

* * *

He's not expecting the call, nor is he expecting Andrew's latest "Drop the Agent-Boss thing" conversation, either. He considers tipping off Sweets and siccing the shrink on his boss. Maybe it will do him some good, considering Sweets seems more capable of navigating relationships than Hacker. Booth then asks God to forgive him his wicked thoughts of retribution and heads home to yank his tux from the closet.

He smiles in the shower, thinking of their exchange days before.

"_Whoa, whoa! How's this going to help us catch Kaswell's killer?"_

_"It won't. But it could exonerate Anok. There can be no time limit for justice, Booth."  
_

"_Bones, Dr. Kaswell's killer is out there now. We're running out of suspects."_

_"You'll do it, Booth. You always do."_

And he'd done it – with her help, as always. Her science remained the balance to his instincts, the yin to the yang. Not satisfied with solving one murder, she'd also managed to exonerate a mummy along the way, impressing Azita Jabbari. The Jeffersonian, in a bid to make Jabbari happy in light of the whole debacle, had announced Bones as the special guest of honour at the exhibit opening.

She, in turn, had requested he accompany her. He'd nearly dropped the phone in surprise. In the past, she'd invited him along "if you'd like to come" to Jeffersonian events (and on occasion, pleaded for him to not let her go solo to an engagement even she dreaded), but this had been a formal "be my plus one" invite. Still reeling from the implications, he was bombarded by questions from Hacker, who'd assumed he would be her date – until he'd phoned to ask the colour of her dress and learned she had no intentions of bringing him with her.

Drying off, Booth hits the radio on and hums along with an old song from _The Breakfast Club_. He's not going to look too deeply into her request. Perhaps it's a way of atoning for the meatloaf story. Maybe she thinks he's interested in the mummy (he is, although to admit it would be too _Squinty_). It doesn't matter to Booth. What matters is this is his opportunity, and he plans to take full advantage of it – starting with the tux.

A gift from his partner.

After The Gravedigger bitch took him hostage, he'd been shaken up. He'd suffered worse in his life, but the understanding that somewhere, a clock was ticking – and his partner had felt its hands creeping up on her own life once upon a horrible goddamn time – had drained him. Knowing Teddy was a mirage or hallucination of some kind was equally distressing. The worst of it, however, had been the thought of breaking his promise to her.

"_Next time I die, I will tell you."_

"_I'll look forward to that._"

He couldn't die on her again. He'd seen the toll it had taken before, and she had been denied seeing his non-existent remains. But if The Gravedigger... Bones would have insisted. She would have faced the task of piecing him back together... cataloging each mark caused by the explosion meant to claim his life and cross-referencing against the wounds of war only she understood so intimately.

He'd been unable to go home. She'd taken him to hers.

In the bleary light of morning, he'd casually mentioned losing his deposit on the tux, to which she'd stated it was _taken care of_. Apparently, her morning coffee run had been more productive than the welcome caffeine shot to his system. His pride had protested her paying off the damaged tux, but he'd fought back tears when she showed up a week later with a tailor-made tuxedo as a gift.

"_Bones, I can't – "_

"_You can. You just don't want to."_

"_Fine, I don't want to."_

"_Booth, when was the last time you needed a tuxedo for an occasion that did not involve me?"_

"_Uh..."_

"_Please, consider it a token of my appreciation for your support. And, if you must, a future bribe towards a gala you will find dull and stuffy."_

She'd snagged his measurements from the rental company, of course. His partner is a genius for a reason. The tux fits like a glove and he admires himself in the mirror. _Not bad, Seeley. Not bad at all!_

The music shifts to a song he knows well and he cranks up the volume before pawing through his drawer for cuff links. He makes it a mere four lines in before realizing it is a perfect song for his partner and the predicament he's in. It's encouraging, like all of the planets coming into alignment. He's gotta make a stand. Tonight.

* * *

He meets her at the Jeffersonian and beams at the sight of her pacing near the platform. Her dress sends a jolt of lightning straight to his groin, the short hemline and pushed up cleavage begging for him to ravage her. From a distance, the effect is of lace over bare skin, and while he knows this cannot be true, his libido is off and running with the illusion. As he passes through the sliding glass doors, she grins and makes her way down the steps.

"You made it!"

"I wouldn't miss your big party, Bones," he replies happily.

Her face suddenly clouds over and he winces. Instinctively, he wraps an arm around her shoulder, hugging her against him.

"C'mon, Bones. I know tonight's all about the past, but it's Egyptian history, not ours. Smile?"

She nods slightly, forcing a slight smile. "I know. Last time... But you're right. I must admit that I was experiencing irrational anxiety waiting here for you. Angela phoned just now and I startled in rather embarrassing fashion."

"If it makes you feel better, I hate it when you head into the parking garage without me," he admits quietly.

A more sincere smile curls her lips now. "Thank you." She steps back a foot, glancing over his attire. "It's an excellent fit!"

"It is. Thanks." Glancing at his watch, he jerks his head towards the doors. "We should probably head over to the exhibit."

"Yes, we should..."

She's got a devious look in her eye and Booth is intrigued. "Bones? Whatcha thinking?"

"Detour," is her only response before looping her arm through his.

They drift in the right general direction – he knows that much from past outings – but once they reach the reception, she pushes through a door clearly marked _Staff Only_ and they cut through a small hallway to a second door emptying into the Exhibition Hall proper.

"Down here," she instructs him, heading for an ornate staircase.

It takes him all of thirty seconds to understand where she's brought him: the Anok display. The one that has not yet opened to Jeffersonian VIPs, let alone the public.

"Bones, we're not supposed to be down here yet!"

"You're with me, Booth. It's my find. You're not going to get into trouble. Don't-don't step on that!" she blurts out suddenly, gesturing to the polished copper embedded in the floor.

"Why?" he asks, but quickly moves on. "God, this is just so cool! Wow!"

There's something about Egyptian history that ropes him in. _Raiders Of The Lost Ark_ perhaps, or _The Mummy_'s _Curse_ – Chaney is one of the greats. Directly ahead is the ruby – Anok's Bleeding Heart. It's as big as Parker's head was at birth. Thanks to his partner, the world knows now that his "heart" bled for his innocence.

"So, he wasn't trampled by his brother?" he asks.

"No," she replies happily. "Meti suffered from _osteogenesis imperfecta_ – " She peeks at him through the case of the ruby and he swallows hard, stuffing down his carnal reaction to the eyeful of cleavage he's been given. "Otherwise known as brittle bone disease. Meti's fall from his horse killed him. Anok was innocent. His mother was right."

Justice, Temperance Brennan style. He thinks back to the first murder he'd heard of her solving and is awash in admiration of her.

"So it only took 3000 years for someone to hear her? You know, I'll tell you what: If I was Egypt I'd throw you a party too."

She chuckles, then suddenly freezes, taking a deep breath and pushing it out loudly. "I have to speak. I hate these things."

"What are you talking about, Bones? You're great at these things. Listen, you changed history. How many people can say that?"

"You can. Every arrest you make changes history. You make the world safer."

His heart flutters. "With your help," he insists.

She's stunning; there is no other word for it. It's not just her physical beauty that floors him. Tonight, he's in awe of her heart muscle, of how deeply she cares about each and every set of remains she examines. He trembles slightly, mulling over her words. She believes that he changes history. In him, she sees greatness. For a moment, he almost believes in it, too.

"So Andrew..." He chooses his words carefully, not wishing to tip his hand or offend her. "I thought you were going to take him to this thing. That's what he told me."

"I was, yes, but you and I, this is our case. And I guess … what goes on between us – that should just be ours. Isn't that what you said?"

"Yeah."

_Ours_. He wants that union. He wants it now. _Kiss her_, his heart insists. He leans forward ever so slightly, their mouths mere inches apart. He could claim her lips with his own in a fraction of a second, pull her body against his and whisper the truths he's finally come to know. Maybe he _is _enough for her now. Maybe this is the right moment. She's not backing away. _Kiss her!_

He's decided: he's going for it. But life has other plans and a burst of noise spins his head towards the ornate staircase, where their coworkers clutch drinks and laugh.

"Come on, you two! The ambassador's about to speak," Angela says.

They retreat, Sweets growling for unknown reasons and the moment is lost. She draws her wings around her frame. Tonight, the butterfly is too shy to take flight with him. She straightens his tie unnecessarily, as if to prolong their solitude here, nestled between two brothers in eternal rest.

"Thanks," he murmurs, his fingers reaching to toy with one large, loose curl.

With a shy smile, she leads him back the way they came – back to reality.

* * *

They spill into Founding Fathers at midnight, the lot of them tipsy off the pricey champagne and other high-end goodies at the open bar (Booth's poison: Johnny Walker Gold Label, which goes down far too smooth to be enjoyed in moderation). There's been a battle cry for nachos (Angela) and french fries (Bones), and the late kitchen hours have earned their usual hangout the misfortune of an intoxicated and horny Daisy Wick.

Yeah, that's also playing a role in his alcohol consumption tonight.

"Isn't it past her bedtime, Sweets?" Booth asks pointedly.

"Yes, it is!" Daisy replies coyly, leaning against Sweets.

"I'm going to hurl if you two don't knock it off," Cam cautions them.

The only place large enough to accommodate them all is a long table near the antique jukebox. Most nights, the owners keep it off, leaving satellite radio piped in over the speakers to entertain the masses. However, on weekend nights, they often flip it on for a few hours, allowing customers to go wild (and spend several quarters in the process). Tonight is one such occasion and Booth watches two women struggling to remain upright in their stilettos flipping through the selections, one jingling coins in her hand.

"Ooh, is the jukebox on tonight?" Angela exclaims. "I wanna pick a song!"

She fumbles through her purse, seeking coins with a frustrated look. A tap on her arm from Hodgins brings a smile to her face as he passes her a quarter.

"Thanks, Jack," she purrs.

"No problem, babe." The bug guy flushes, then quickly flags the server near the bar. "Can we get menus? Drinks?"

Booth shakes his head. He still can't wrap his head around their break-up. It's obvious Hodgins is nowhere close to being over Angela, and the way she glances at him when she thinks he's not looking, it's pretty clear she still holds a candle for him, too. _Everything happens eventually_, he reminds himself, sighing happily as Bones leans up against him. He catches Cam's curious gaze across the table and flashes her a firm look to drop it for now.

Orders are taken and Angela pops up from the table to choose her song. She flips furiously and it's obvious she knows what she wants and simply needs to find it. Hodgins is staring at her and Booth wonders if he's been looking at his partner the same way.

_Crap, I hope I'm not that obvious_.

"What did you pick, Angela?" Daisy asks.

"You'll see!" she sing-songs, grinning at the approach of their drinks. "Yay, wine!"

Booth rises to his feet, beer in hand. "I'd like to offer another quick toast for my partner, whose dedication to justice spans centuries." Glancing down at her flushed cheeks, he continues. "You give people back their voices, even when it seems all ears have fallen deaf."

"To Brennan," Angela chimes in.

"To Brennan!" the group enthusiastically enchoes, clinking glasses all around.

"You're all very, very kind. Thank you," she says quietly.

"A humble Dr. Brennan? Someone get video of this!" Cam teases.

"Yes!" Angela cheers as the song changes.

"The Boss! Excellent choice," Sweets enthuses.

"Cam sings?" Bones asks, confused.

"Bruce Springsteen, sweetie," Angela explains. "That's his nickname."

"Oh! I know who that is," she replies happily.

"You do?" Booth asks.

"Russ likes him. I don't know his work, but this song's good so far," she explains.

Hodgins leans forward. "You've never heard 'Dancing In The Dark' before now?"

His partner shakes her head. "No. Is it popular?"

The table erupts in chuckles. "Just a little," Booth replies lightly.

Angela is on her feet, dancing around the table and singing with abandon. Booth loves her spirit. She tends to pull the scientists out of their respective shells, something they desperately need. Coyly, she drapes herself over Hodgins' lap and sings a few lines, only to demonstrate her equal-opportunity serenading by doing the same to Cam, then Bones. When she reaches Booth, she winks and curls up in his lap, singing one line very pointedly.

"_You can't start a fire without a spark,_" she stresses, before winking at the group and pointing to Booth. "_This gun's for hire, even if we're just dancing in the dark_."

"Woohoo!" Daisy cheers, downing her beer.

"I gotta get a gun," Sweets mumbles.

Angela leans over and whispers in his ear. "Denial's not just a river in Egypt."

"Huh?"

"Hacker? Please."

The artist flits off to her seat as a large platter of nachos is plunked on the table and Booth considers her words carefully. What denial is she talking about? Bones denying _him_? Angela's been hung up on pairing them off for years – Bones has told him as much over drinks while rather intoxicated, and they often chuckle about it – but is she onto something?

An idea hits him, and he rises to his feet.

"Your song's inspired me, Angela," he announces, pulling a quarter from his back pocket.

"Let's see you top me, G-Man," she goads him.

He strolls over to the jukebox and flips back several pages to the letter P. He scans one page, then half of the next before finding his choice. With a grin and a punch of three keys, he inserts the coin and heads back to the table.

"What did you pick?" Cam asks.

"A song I was reminded of earlier today. Forgot how great it is."

"I know what you mean. The other day, I heard 'Welcome To The Jungle' at the gym and had to raise a fist," Sweets says.

"Lancelot, my rocker!" Daisy coos.

Booth catches his partner's grimace. She hates the pet name her intern likes to throw around. _Unprofessional_, she gripes. He watches her pop a french fry in her mouth and smiles.

"I am so hungry!" she exclaims.

"That's why we always order Thai to go with our scotch," Booth replies. "You're a hungry drunk."

"I am not inebriated!" she protests loudly, much to the amusement of the bartender across the room.

"Sure, Bones." He glances up as the music changes. "There it is!"

Hodgins grins, recognizing the opening riffs. "Hell yeah!"

"_How can it be permissible?  
She compromise my principle, yeah, yeah  
That kind of love is mythical  
She's anything but typical..._"

Drunk men cannot be restrained in the face of classic rocking tunes and soon, Booth and Hodgins are singing along with flourishes of air guitar and drums. Sweets bobs his head in time while Angela flashes the horns in approval.

"_She's a craze you'd endorse, she's a powerful force  
You're obliged to conform when there's no other course  
She used to look good to me, but now I find her – _"

Hodgins thumps the table, accenting the drums as the two of them grin and shout: "_Simply irresistible_!"

Booth steals a glance at his partner and finds her beaming, shimmying in her seat to the beat. _If only she understood this song is about her, about us_. Angela understands, flashing a quick thumbs up his way.

"_Her loving is so powerful, huh!  
It's simply unavoidable  
The trend is irreversible  
The woman is invincible_."

Hodgins decides turnabout is fair play and serenades Angela with a fork. She giggles while Sweets slips briefly into shrink mode and studies their interaction. Angela's celibacy has her so wound up, Hodgins could likely have his way with her right at the table, audience be damned.

_Fuck it. If Hodgins can get away with it, so can I_. Directing his attention at Bones, he sings his heart out.

"_She's a natural law and she leaves me in awe  
She deserves the applause, I surrender because  
She used to look good to me, but now I find her – _"

Daisy drums the table and the entire group – even his partner – shouts it out: "_Simply irresistible_!"

Booth steals a fry from the plate, earning a playful swat of the hand. Shrugging, he takes another, laughing as his partner lunges out to bite it.

"Order your own!" she protests.

"Why? You never do!"

"Your french fries taste better," she asserts.

"Oh, is that an empirical observation?" he counters.

"Yes! I've tested it on several occasions where we've both ordered fries."

Cam laughs heartily at this. "Only you could make a scientific defense of food thievery."

"Science is irrefutable," she replies, devouring another fry.

"Cam, you're her boss. Order her to share," Booth pleads, suddenly hungry.

Cam snorts, reaching for her wine. "Seeley, you know damn well I'm her boss in title only."

"You can have some nachos," Daisy offers. "I don't even think the four of us can finish this."

"See that? Your intern is nicer than you, Bones."

"I am a very pleasant and likable person," Daisy chirps as she nudges the platter towards him, much to Angela's amusement.

He's barely managed to snag a cheesy chip when he feels a tap on the shoulder. He turns and Bones is there, feeding him a pair of fries.

"I can be nice too," she murmurs.

"_She's unavoidable, I'm backed against the wall  
She gives me feelings like I never felt before  
I'm breaking promises, she's breaking every law  
She used to look good, but now I find her..."_

He swallows, his throat suddenly dryer than the deserts of Iraq. "Yes, you can be."

He pops the chip in his mouth after draining his beer, needing an excuse for not talking. He expects if he tries to speak, he'll stumble over every word, throw caution to the wind and drag her out to the nearest cab for a do-over of five years ago.

The banter resumes, chatter of benefactors and their dirty laundry, much to Booth's relief. Another round of drinks arrives in the form of tequila shots. Booth groans, cursing the synchronicity of Hodgins' intended good gesture. _Never mind, Booth_.

"I don't drink tequila anymore," Bones says.

"Me neither."

"More for me!" Angela crows, knocking back an extra shot. "God, tequila always makes me think of body shots..."

"Oh?" Hodgins is very interested, it seems.

"Angela..."

"Yeah, yeah Sweets. Go home or leave this nun be," Angela replies with a pout.

Hodgins glares at the shrink and he seems to hide behind his girlfriend. _Poor guy_. At least Booth isn't the only one who can't catch a break tonight. Angela offers her ex the remaining shot and he takes it from her outstretched hand with his mouth, throwing his head back in a hands-free slamming of booze. Angela whistles in approval.

"I love when you do that."

"Look at the time! I've got a teenager at home, hopefully alone, that I ought to get back to, so I must sadly say goodnight," Cam announces.

_Third wheel annoyance_, Booth realizes. He's been there and it blows. Funny that there's only one actual couple at the table and yet, the dynamic's shifting somehow. He rises to hug her goodbye, ensuring she's grabbing a cab even though he knows she'd never drive after drinking. It's the protective instinct – she calls it his lion heart. Suddenly realizing that, unlike everyone else at the table, they can get laid tonight, Daisy and Sweets hurry off, throwing down an excessive amount of cash to cover their share of the tab.

"I should probably get home too before I strip and dance on the bar," Angela grumbles.

"Now, now, don't go running off yet!" Hodgins teases. "I could hold a stool steady for you."

"You are a cheeky flirt."

"I am merely supporting my friend in her pursuit of artistic outlets, including dancing," Hodgins replies, batting his eyes.

"I support you too," Brennan says.

"Why don't you come dance with me?" Angela suggests with a wink.

"Yeah Bones, go dance! We'll get _Coyote Ugly_ up in here."

"I don't know what that means."

"You probably don't want to," Angela says, standing up slowly. "It has been a blast. Congrats, Bren." She leans over and kisses her friend's cheek. "Goodnight, Booth, Jack."

"Let me walk you to the cab," Hodgins insists, rushing to his feet. "Leave the bill, Booth."

"Hodgins – "

"I'm treating everyone except Daisy and Sweets. Deal with it. They have my card and they'll run through the tab when you leave. Goodnight, guys." He winks as he pockets the cash on the table and follows Angela to the doors with an enormous smile.

_And then there were two_.

"I'm finding that I feel rather sleepy," his partner murmurs.

"Well, you _have_ had a lot to drink tonight."

"I hate speaking," she mutters, draining her glass of wine. "I also loathe the inanity of most of the Board members."

"Hey, I say you deserve a little drunkenness!" He snags the last lonely chip from the nacho plate and gestures to her remaining fries. "You gonna eat those?"

"No, you are," she says with a smirk. "Taste better when they're not yours, right?"

He pops all three into his mouth at once, chewing slowly and humming to himself as if in deep thought. Swallowing, he replies, "Maybe."

"Definitely."

"C'mon Bones, let's get you home."

With a stifled yawn, she rises to her feet, teetering on her heels. His arm slides around her waist to steady her and they navigate their way outside to the waiting cabs eager for drunken fares. He waves at one to ensure it'll wait and helps her along the sidewalk.

"Heels are so impractical, never mind unhealthy for the feet," she tells him.

Holding open the cab door, he helps her inside. "So why wear them?"

"Because you're tall."

He slides in beside her and gives the driver her address first. She's exhausted. The lack of sleep during the case is finally catching up with her in a boozy haze. Her head comes to rest on his arm and he lifts it out of the way.

"Can I? I just... need to rest my eyes..."

"Of course, Bones."

She rests her head on his knee and he swallows hard. His hand smooths over her hair, one light stroke after another, as he watches the city pass by the window. It's been one hell of a night, but he still doesn't know what to make of her dating Hacker and their interactions tonight. To him, it's felt very _couple_-like in nature, although he has to admit then that they've been acting very couple-like for years. How does _she _see it? He's too scared to ask and she's not telling.

It's getting harder each passing day to remain silent, but he has no choice. Temperance Brennan cannot be made to think, feel or do anything on anyone's schedule but her own. To blurt it out would be to risk their partnership if she doesn't reciprocate his love. He can't see her dating another guy and loving him.

_Maybe she doesn't see it. You didn't until the coma_.

"Mister?"

Booth glances up and finds they've reached their destination. "Oh, sorry. Bones?"

Dead weight. He shakes her arm slightly, but she merely draws her knees closer to her chest. She's out. He tosses cash for the fare at the driver and slips out from beneath her sleeping form. Rounding to her side, he opens the door carefully and scoops her into his arms. She barely shifts at the jostling. It's been a very long time since he's seen her this drunk.

The doorman mercifully spots him and holds the door open. "Good evening, Mr. Booth. I'll get the elevator for you."

"Thanks, Jordan," he replies softly. "Any chance you could get her door, too?"

"Of course."

The doorman rides up with them, holding the elevator open and then slipping ahead of Booth with his spare key to unlock the apartment door. He holds her front door open as well, leaving the keys on the kitchen counter.

"Thanks, Jordan."

"You're very welcome."

The doorman takes care to shut the door quietly behind him and Booth makes his way down the hall to her bedroom. He nudges the door open with his foot and grimaces at the sight of her bed. Clothes are strewn over much of it. She was obviously indecisive about her outfit for the evening. _You chose well_, he thinks, admiring her dress anew.

On the side nearest to him, he spies a sliver of vacant space and manages to gently maneuver her there. He grabs for her dresses and blouses, tossing them on top of her dresser for the night. _She'll make sense of it in the morning_. Turning back to her, he's suddenly aware that something is missing – two somethings.

"The shoes."

She must have kicked them off in the cab. He hadn't noticed at all. _Damn it_. Hopefully, she'll be able to get them back.

Draping a blanket over her, he pauses to admire her soft features. In sleep, she looks younger, free of worry. The pursuit of justice takes a toll on all of them, but in quiet slumber, she is simply Temperance the woman. Unconsciously, his fingers drift to her cheek, tracking her mandible lovingly. Her head leans into his touch and he sighs wistfully, wishing he could hold her until morning.

"Goodnight, Bones," he whispers.

Unable to resist temptation, his lips graze her cheek. She smiles from the ethers of her dreams and his heart sings him out her door.

"_Her methods are inscrutable  
The proof is irrefutable, ooh  
She's so completely kissable  
Our lives are indivisible_

_She's a craze you'd endorse, she's a powerful force_  
_You're obliged to conform when there's no other course_  
_She used to look good to me, but now I find her_

_Simply irresistible..."_

* * *

_**You know the routine: there's a super-cool box at the bottom. Right there, see? It's a magic portal to my skull and it feeds my neurons candy to keep them writing. I'd love to know what you think of this one!**_

_**I have two songs in mind, so I also want to know what you want next week: mid-season 2 or mid-season 6? Your wish is my musical command!  
**_

"


	9. Careless Whisper

_**AN: It's been... a bad few weeks. I apologize. We had a family member rushed to the hospital, which led to a near week of erratic schedules and worry, followed by being slammed with a stomach bug and now, I've also been gifted with the mister's "paralyze you in sickness while you beg for Tamiflu" virus. Yuck!**_

_**Luckily, this was half-done, so I managed to cobble it together for you. I'm not sure if The Bard will go up this week, but I'll try! Hopefully, this bit of angst holds you over.  
**_

_**Tag To: The Sin In The Sisterhood  
**_

_**Disclaimer: I own neither Bones nor the lyrics to George Michael's signature sax-laced song "Careless Whisper". Dialogue is used for context; no infringement intended.  
**_

* * *

**Careless Whisper (George Michael)**

"Should you call Hannah and ask her to join us? She enjoys drinking alcohol very much."

Typical Bones: selfless to the point of self-harm. Although the dust seemed settled now, Booth knew that his partner's version of "adjusting" was something that often took years. Prime example: forgiving her brother for abandoning her to foster care.

"Nah, she's working late, you know?"

It was truthful, but her plans weren't locked in stone. She was digging through research in preparation for a new story idea – something about someone's senate seat that Booth was only half-concerned with. Besides, lately he'd been feeling guilty about the times Hannah had crashed their post-case drinks. If he truly meant what he'd said to her last year – that what was theirs was theirs alone – then their traditions needed to remain as they were.

_And yet, you didn't bother to think of that when you blabbed to Hannah about Bones' feelings for you, did you?_

And now, he _really _needed a drink. "Hey, hey! Could I get the usual here?" he called out to the server.

"Coming up!"

Returning his attention to his partner, he said, "So, this case proves that, um, two's company."

"You were right," Brennan demurred with a smile, making him chuckle. "The Samuel Wives only appeared to be happy with their arrangement."

"Right. The one guy who _was_ happy ended up dead."

"Do you think Ed Samuel loved all of his wives equally?"

"No, mm-mm. He loved the first one the most," he replied quickly.

"How do you know?" Bones asked.

"The schedule."

"But each week, each wife was assigned two nights apiece, and he spent Sunday nights alone," she countered.

That was the intended schedule, but the reality, Booth knew, was anything but fair. "Well, he was _supposed_ to spend Sunday alone..."

Her eyes widened as she caught on. "He didn't?"

"He went back to the first one."

"He did?"

"Every Sunday, that's what they said."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, it means Bones, that you know, you could love a lot of people in this world, but there's only one person you love the most."

Scientist Bones was fully engaged now. "Well, how do you know which person you love the most when you're confused by chemical messages traveling throughout your limbic system?"

"You just do."

The intensity of her gaze caught him off-guard and his eyes drifted towards Camille, who seemed much more at ease with her doctor than she had lately. Maybe they could make a go of it after all. His friend deserved happiness, but it seemed she often shut it down or sabotaged it quickly.

_And you? Do you deserve happiness? _

He glanced over at his partner, his stomach rolling with anxiety. This case had been nagging at him for more reasons than his belief in monogamy. Staring at her slightly flushed cheeks and the elegance of her jaw line, something clicked.

_There's only one person you love the most and you know damn well it's not Hannah_.

His eyes averted guiltily as Bones turned to him and twisted the knife in his heart just a little deeper. "What if you let that person get away?"

"That person's not going anywhere," he replied – a revelation as much as a response.

When he searched her features for an answer of his own, he found himself drifting into the ether of that old world. The one before he'd taken Sweets up on his gamble. The one before he'd stepped back into the world of combat and watched his cosmic balance sheet swing horribly out of balance.

Reaching for her wine, Bones said, "We are a good team, all of us."

"The best," he agreed as their glasses clinked, taking a thoughtful sip.

It was peaceful here, in his land of denial. Safe inside this bubble of booze and buddy banter, he could forget for a minute or two how much their lives had shifted in the last year. Things could be as they were.

_Before you screwed them up, that is_.

Booth sighed, downing his drink and signaling the server for a second round. His entire body ached with exhaustion, sleep an impossible ghost he chased into the dawn for a scant reprieve and a slender elbow jabbing at him until he silenced the alarm clock. His mind whirred to life in the darkness, replaying scenes from the past like an emotional torture porn.

Every reel of film contained Temperance Brennan.

"Cam's leaving."

Booth glanced up, noting the cozy couple departing without having a meal. Knowing Cam as well as he did, she'd opted for the impatient _grab-takeout-and-go-home-sexfest_ tonight. For a woman who claimed to crave a guy sweeping her off her feet, she had a way of undermining romance.

"You think they'll stay together?" Bones asked him.

Booth shrugged. "Too hard to tell. If they can't prioritize each other, it'll never work. Couples should drop everything for each other."

"They have demanding careers, Booth."

"Yeah, but there has to be balance. And besides, I'm thinking more of the big situations – needing support from someone who knows you well."

"I understand what you mean."

Her words were heavy with sadness and Booth winced, suddenly falling prey to a memory of a helicopter and the security of his partner's embrace. They needed a topic change desperately, but he couldn't seem to find words that didn't lead back to her, to _them_, whatever they were or would be. Luckily, his partner moved in to save him from his wallowing.

"Mr. Nigel-Murray contacted me today with an intriguing premise for the publication I've been asked to submit. I'm very excited! I've invited him to collaborate on it as part of his dissertation."

"Really?" He couldn't recall offhand the last time she'd willingly and enthusiastically worked with an intern – perhaps Zack? "What's it about?"

She smiled as the server not only brought a refill for Booth, but another glass of red wine. "It's a surprise, but I will tell you, as partners, that it involves dinosaurs. Parker would love it, I think. Would he be able to attend the presentation of our findings?"

"I'll mention it to Rebecca now. You know Bones, you keep turning my kid into a Squint and I won't have a damn clue what he's saying anymore," he teased.

"You understand me perfectly."

Booth hesitated. "Mostly."

He'd once believed himself to be the authority on his partner, the one person who _got her_, but that damn night at the Hoover had changed everything. What he'd believed was no longer solid, his emotions running wild. And when she'd announced the project in the Island of Misfit Bones, he'd taken that to mean she was done with their partnership – and him. He'd ruined it, strained their bond to a tenuous thread that could not bear its weight.

Knowing now that he'd completely missed her cues, blowing a chance at happiness with her, he wondered what else he'd gotten wrong over the years. How many times had he unwittingly hurt her? How many signs had he missed?

"I'll be right back," she said, gesturing in the direction of the washrooms. "Order me another?"

Booth nodded, startled to realize she'd knocked back another glass while he sat in some pathetic silence. He was lousy company tonight and he chastised himself for it.

_She's carried on. Why can't you? _

The _what ifs_ of the matter were haunting his every moment. Watching her walk away, he wondered if they would be here now if they were a _they_, or would they be in bed, reclaiming beauty in their world of death and anger? Would he have ever contemplated Afghanistan if she'd admitted her love sooner?

It hit him then, the proverbial ton of bricks: she _had_ told him, in front of the Hoover. It was in her own way, her own language, but it was there between the lines. With fresh eyes, he also understood now that he had never spelled it out for her. He'd never uttered such a simple word, and perhaps it would have made a world of difference.

So many choices, so many courses changed by the slightest forks in the road.

_You're with Hannah now_, he told himself harshly. _None of it matters, because you've made your choice and you're here now. Hannah is intelligent, funny and kind and she isn't a stand-in for Bones. She's a woman all her own, and you love her_.

"I love her," he whispered aloud, as if to stress his mental lecture.

_But you love Bones the most_.

Booth shook his head free of the cyclical thoughts, polishing off his drink before ordering a double for him and another glass of wine for his partner. She'd been gone for several minutes now and his instincts engaged. Had it been too long? Was there a line-up? Was she okay?

_It's busy_, he told himself, unclenching his fists. _There's definitely a line-up_. His drink disappeared in a frustrated swig upon arrival and his eyes scanned the crowd. Still no sign of her. _I should look for her_. He rose to his feet but froze, catching sight of her at last. What he saw stole his breath with a shot to his stomach.

_She's been crying_.

Oh, she'd cleaned up as best she could, employing all of her usual tricks that he'd borne witness to so many times before. But the tell-tale ring around her eyes gave her away.

_You made her cry_.

Endlessly hurting her, or so it seemed. She flashed a brave half-smile, but Booth knew now what he had to do. He had to let her go, once and for. He couldn't keep doing this dance of loving her silently while steadfastly remaining with his girlfriend, whom he also loved. It wasn't fair to either woman. His cruelty – even if it was unintentional – sickened him. Booth had been raised better than this.

"I'm sorry I took so long," she apologized as she neared their table. "I had to take a call from Russ."

"Is everything okay?" he asked softly.

"Oh, yes. He wants to visit sometime soon and was asking about my schedule. I advised him that with Broadsky loose, I preferred they stay at a distance."

A lie, but a damn good one. Maybe he could still read her, after all.

A familiar melody filled the room and several tables hooted in recognition as their server knowingly brought him another round without prompting. Booth knew this song, not for lack of avoidance. It was impossible to avoid mega-hits forever.

*  
"_Time can never mend  
The careless whispers of a good friend  
To the heart and mind  
Ignorance is kind  
There's no comfort in the truth  
Pain is all you'll find_..."

"I know this song," she added, pointing to a nearby speaker.

Suddenly, the song playing made perfect sense, like some sort of wicked sign. It was time to make a choice.

"Dance with me," he whispered.

She startled at the suggestion. "What? Here?"

"Why not?" His hand reached for hers, squeezing it lightly. "C'mon Bones, it's just a dance."

"Booth, I would feel rather foolish," she protested.

"Please, Bones?" He was begging her now and only half-ashamed.

*  
"_I feel so unsure  
As i take your hand  
And lead you to the dance floor  
As the music dies  
Something in your eyes  
Calls to mind a silver screen  
And all its sad goodbyes_..."

With a slight nod, she allowed him to pull her closer and they began to sway. It took him back to another time, another dance to another overplayed Top 40 hit with a heavy heart that simply could not shake loose its adoration for his partner. To his relief, he spotted others dancing in various corners of the bar. _Plausible denial_, he told himself. _No big deal, just a dance_. That was all she'd ever have to know.

And yet, as her arms wrapped tighter around his neck, Booth had the sickening feeling that she knew damn well what this gesture meant to him, to _them_, and she was hanging on for all she was worth. A soft murmur in his ear sent him into a tailspin. _It could have been like this, _he rebuked himself. _It could have been just like this, always_.

*  
"_Tonight, the music seems so loud  
I wish that we could lose this crowd  
Maybe it's better this way  
We'd hurt each other with the things we want to say  
We could have been so good together  
We could have lived this dance forever  
But now who's gonna dance with me?_"

He fought against the agonizing guilt swelling within him, fought to keep his expression neutral. His fingers slid to her hips, tightening their grip, but Bones never complained. Booth was grateful for her generous heart and simultaneously infuriated by it. If she knew his intentions – and he knew that she sensed them, knowing him as well as she did – she ought to be pushing back against him, pounding his chest and calling him out for the barbaric and cruel bastard he was.

_Why don't you hate me, Bones? How could you confess your love to me after months of being shoved aside?_

*  
"_And I'm never gonna dance again  
guilty feet have got no rhythm  
though it's easy to pretend  
I know you're not a fool  
Should've known better than to cheat a friend  
and waste the chance that I've been given  
so I'm never gonna dance again  
the way I danced with you..._"

Booth wished she hated him, wished she couldn't stand working with him. It would make this... separation easier. He wished a lot of things, it seemed, and the powers above had no interest in making them come true. _Live with what you've got, Booth_, God seemed to be saying. _Make the most of the chances you've been given_. _Play the hand you've been dealt_. _It's better this way_.

"Booth?"

"Hmm?"

"The song ended..."

He shook his head slightly, pulling back just enough to register his partner's pained expression. "Sorry. Guess I got a little lost in thought." He leaned in and kissed her cheek lightly. "Thanks, Bones."

"Anything for you, Booth," she replied quietly, retreating for their table and her waiting glass of red wine.

_She knows_.

Booth had barely settled back into his own seat and reached for his drink when she asked the question he'd hoped she'd never voice: "Why?"

"Why, Bones?"

"The dance. Why?"

He couldn't speak the truth, not aloud. Not to her beautiful face and murky grey eyes laden with sadness. "I suppose..." He swallowed hard, choosing his words with care. "I guess a dance for a dance. That sounds wrong, I'm sorry – "

"Don't be," she replied quickly. "But a wise man once said, roughly, '_An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind_'."

Booth watched helplessly as she drained her glass and threw down several twenties from her purse. "It's getting late and I'm exhausted. I'll see you soon, Booth."

"Bones?" It was more of a hoarse gasp than a question.

He trailed her to the doors of Founding Fathers, where she suddenly spun and slammed her right palm against his chest. His heart shuddered as he ground to a halt, as if the organ were physically rocked by the force of her hand. A single tear slid down her right cheek and she fired her kill-shot.

"There is no _more_ with me, no _most_. I can only love one person."

And with that, she was gone, and Booth slumped against the wall, watching her disappear into a conveniently waiting cab. His stomach rolled with the consequences of his careless and selfish actions.

_Well, asshole, you got your wish: it's definitely over_.

The worst part of the whole stupid disaster? Now that it was... it was the last thing Booth wanted.

* * *

_**This was an intriguing one to play with... The wondering of why Booth suddenly, on a seeming whim, proposes to Hannah in The Daredevil In The Mold. What the hell is he thinking? Does he mean it? Does he do it on purpose to get Hannah to leave him? While I think that, in part, he was trying to flail and find a way out, or perhaps "get a sign" about whether he was meant to be with Hannah, I also think he felt he didn't have Brennan as an option anymore after Doctor In The Photo. **_

_**And yes, down the line, we will examine Daredevil's "stay and drink" scene.  
**_

_**For a bit of fun, if you've never heard Gossip's cover of "Careless Whisper", YouTube it and consider it Brennan's "song" for this chapter.  
**_

_**See you next Sunday, I hope! In the meantime, I would greatly appreciate reviews and thoughts... Please assure me my brain's still writing in coherent English?  
**_

_**OH! Also, I'm curious: would anyone be interested in a version of this story posted in chronological order? The chapters often reference each other and while I do try and pair them accordingly, it might be fun to see things in order. Let me know!  
**_


	10. Gimme All Your Lovin'

**_AN: For those who also follow The Bard, I'm sorry. It just wasn't flowing this week and I didn't want to post garbage (trust me, it was bad). This week should be the magic week, I hope. No, I promise.  
_**

**_Back to this story... Um, so I made a bunch of you cry/feel very sad with the last chapter. I'm overwhelmed with the response to the last chapter and am so glad you felt it was a realistic explanation of how we went from "One person you love the most" to "Marry me, Hannah." Some of you also really liked that Brennan kind of gave him a verbal slap for his words and actions, which is awesome. Brennan hurt him in season five, but never like that. It was such a cruel thing to say and yet hopeful and wonderful to realize that Booth knew he loved her most...  
_**

**_Season six. All the goddamn feels and angst.  
_**

**_Anyway, I figured we all needed a respite from the angst (I did!) so we're going to play in flirty fluffy land. This one goes out to NCISVILLE, who's one of my biggest cheerleaders and also asked once upon a time for me to do a "What happened next?" for this episode for my Bites series of one-shots. Enjoy, lovely!  
_**

**_Tag To: Stargazer In A Puddle  
_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own Bones, nor do I own Billy Gibbons, ZZ Top or "Gimme All Your Lovin'". No infringement intended and all that.  
_**

* * *

**Gimme All Your Lovin' (ZZ Top)**

"Why is the minister staring at us still?"

I glanced over and caught yet another mischievous glance cast at my partner and I. "No idea, Bones." I handed another straggler the directions to the reception and shrugged. "Did Angela answer you yet?"

Bones nodded a greeting at a passing guest. "No, she hasn't. Ms. Julian knows the impetus behind their departure. Shall we put the bolts to her?"

"Screws, Bones. And yes, I think that's a great idea."

Ten minutes ago, we'd been left at the altar by Hodgins and Angela, who'd bailed on their own wedding and invited their guests to proceed to the reception as scheduled. Whatever the reasons, they had to be huge: Zack mentioned something about the government and conspiracies, and considering that he was as rational as his supervisor, there was some merit in his rambling. That, and the guy I vaguely recognized from the Hoover showing up dropping words like 'imperative'.

The thought of merit brought me back to the kid's letter, and I found myself struggling to find the words I'd soon need. I'd skimmed it quickly during the confusion and clearing of the church, enough to know that his comments about duty and honour were as ominous as the return address on the envelope. _Fuck, Iraq..._ What was he thinking? True, he wasn't a soldier, but he would be in a war zone, exposed to horrors no one should see. It felt like a big damn plunge from Mama Bird's nest to prove he could fly. Of course, I couldn't explain it that way to Bones. I sighed, scanning the church once more to ensure all had departed. Times like these were when I wished to God that my partner had at least a basic appreciation of colloquialisms.

"I see Caroline!" Bones called out, storming down the steps of the church.

I followed quickly, knowing that my partner had a talent for pissing the prosecutor off. And when Caroline was pissed, she was a spiteful woman – and that meant no secret information on why we'd been left holding the damn bag.

"Dr. Brennan, _why_ are you stalking me to my damn car?" Caroline snapped, spinning around and proving yet again that she had eyes in the back of her head.

"I wasn't stalking. I was attempting to catch up to – you weren't being literal," Brennan concluded sheepishly.

"Oh no, I meant every word! Don't make me haul out a restraining order and do _not _keep me from the open bar at that reception, because the Good Lord knows I need a drink!" Caroline shook her head and glared at me. "Yes, _Cher_?"

"What happened?" I asked. "Zack said the government was involved. Has to be pretty big."

"Is that what you're on about? Look, Agent Booth: you wanna know? Ask the blushing bride-not-to-be."

Bones' face blanched. "Did they break up?"

Her concern pulled every string of my weary heart. She'd seemed cool and collected – still did. But for a moment, she'd revealed a glimmer of disappointment. _She really wants them to work out_.

Caroline threw up her hands. "No! Fine, but this is confidential between us three, and I will deny to the grave that this conversation _ever_ took place." Pausing for dramatic effect, she whispered, "Angela is apparently already married."

My jaw went slack and for a moment, I swore I'd have to push it back into place with my hand. Angela was already married? To who? When? And why hadn't she said anything before?

"This is why marriage is an archaic and problematic institution," Bones said. "If she'd never married in the first place, nor considered a second marriage, the laws would not be creating this rather awkward and expensive set of circumstances."

"What? How do you do that?"

"Do what, Booth?"

"Turn everything into an argument against everything romantic, loving or... or _Catholic_!"

My blood pressure was creeping higher and while a somewhat sane part of me was aware that I was taking things too personally – that this was _Bones_ and I should have expected nothing less – the looming duty of divulging Zack's destination was my personal Sword of Damocles and the threads were about to snap. Luckily, Caroline decided to save my ass.

"Enough! The couple is fine. The booze is paid for. Why aren't we there yet? Oh, right: _you two –_" At this, she jabbed a finger into each of our chests with ferocity. "– are having an anthro-theological smackdown! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to drive my crappy little car to the oasis. Stay here on your personal Sahara and perish, or join me."

I chuckled in spite of myself and immediately clamped my hand over my mouth in terror as Caroline glared. With a decisive slam of her car door, she turned over the engine, coaxing her beater car back to life.

"I didn't mean to offend you," Bones said quietly.

"I know. Did you bring your car?"

"Angela and I took the limo."

"C'mon Bones, you're coming with me then."

She followed silently, head ever-so-slightly down-turned. I knew that posture of hers and felt terrible for the entire twenty seconds it took to reach the SUV. How did I always manage to upset her?

Oh, right: I have a habit of forgetting that her stoic expression and scientific jargon were her way of forcing the sensitive woman within to cower in a secret cave, safe from the rest of the world.

"Hey, Bones, wait," I muttered, cutting ahead of her and blocking the passenger door.

Her eyes raised, but wouldn't meet mine. "What, Booth?"

My hand reached out for her cheek and lifted her chin. "Please don't be upset. You did nothing wrong, alright?"

"I'm well aware that your views of marriage are more traditional than mine, and while that doesn't invalidate my perspective, I find that it is wiser to sometimes quietly respect differences. This was one such case where that would have been best."

"Look, Bones: just because we argue about these things doesn't mean I want you to shut up or pretend you agree with me," I replied.

"I wouldn't do that," she protested. "But we have larger concerns right now, like Angela and Hodgins' state of being."

That was true enough. All the same, I flashed her my trademarked grin, the one I _knew_ she saw through, yet always roped her in against her will. "You're right this time, Bones. Just don't let it be a habit. I mean, who else is gonna argue with me 'til my blood pressure's through the roof?"

She chuckled and slapped lightly at my arm. "_Booth_!"

"That's my girl!" I enthused, pulling open her door. "Now get in! I need a drink and to ditch this damn tie."

It wasn't until I'd made it around to my side that I rewound my last words and inwardly winced. _You called her your girl? Girl? As if it wasn't unprofessional enough, you chose girl over woman or lady?_ Apparently, I was on a mission to drive her away for another year. _Arresting her father, pissing her off, and oh yeah, I get to drop the Zack bomb on her. Lovely._

Drawing a deep breath, I slid into the driver's seat and cranked the engine. Maybe she hadn't heard me, or maybe she'd understood that it was just a phrase people used... Oh, who was I kidding? Bones and slang were an open can of gasoline and a pack of matches hanging out in a room of pure oxygen. My hand adjusted the rear view mirror, sneaking a peek at her face. She seemed relaxed enough.

Hmm. Looked like I'd be paying later, not now. I could live with that.

"Mind if I turn on music?"

"Not at all. I'm going to try texting Angela again."

"Just don't tell her we know! I'm not dealing with Caroline," I cautioned her.

"I'm not an idiot, Booth! Trust me."

After flipping a few stations and finding nothing but crap, I switched to the mix CD I'd had going on the drive over. It was mostly rock, which would probably not bother Bones much. I smiled at the sudden memory of rocking out in her living room last year and hummed along as a Foo Fighters track blasted through the speakers.

"What's this?" my partner asked.

"Foo Fighters. You know them?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. I don't know this song."

"Bones, you really need to listen to radio more often. 'Everlong' is one of their biggest singles!"

"Angela says the same thing," she replied, rolling her eyes. "It's not my fault I'm busy with work."

"Can't listen to music and work?" I asked.

"Not usually. Sometimes, if I stay overnight to work on remains, I play classical music for the caretaker staff."

I glanced over at her, frustrated. "Bones, what have I told you about the all-nighters? You need rest. You _deserve _rest. Isn't there an anthropological rationale for proper downtime and recreation?"

Her eyes twinkled as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Are you certain you wish to employ anthropology against me in a debate?"

No, I definitely wasn't going there. "Yeah, never mind."

Traffic was surprisingly tame for a Saturday afternoon, not that it mattered much. The church was fifteen blocks from the Jeffersonian, where Hodgins had pulled rank via Cantilever and booked a last-minute reception. He'd even managed to arrange for exclusive use of the gardens during typical public visitor hours, never mind the entire wing of the Natural Museum that was normally reserved for in-house functions. I knew a lot more than I cared to about the workings of the Jeffersonian now, having been my partner's arm candy to several events she attended out of obligation.

For example, I knew the booze would be top shelf, meaning I was hitting the good ol' Johnnnie Walker Blue tonight. My pay grade would never afford it, but on someone else's dime? Make it a double... and then another.

I also knew that my partner had the ability to delegate her prime parking space to my vehicle on request, and while Hodgins had arranged decent spaces for the wedding guests, the spot I swung into on arrival was still closer to the reception area.

"You told them overnight, right?"

"Of course. I would never allow you to drive after drinking."

Her hand reached for her door and I immediately jammed the automatic lock button. "What do you think you're doing?"

She was clearly annoyed. "Getting out!"

"Nuh-uh, no way. Not today."

"Booth – "

"I promised Angela I'd escort you properly. Don't make me piss off Angela, Bones. She's scary."

"I'm going to kill her," she grumbled.

"Yeah, well, until you succeed with one of your ten martial arts or whatever, let me open the damn door."

I hurried around the front of the car, making a note to myself to advise Angela of what she'd supposedly ordered me to do. This was all me, and yeah, maybe I was imposing my values on my partner, but she deserved a little special attention after recent events. With a flourish and a bow, I opened her door and reached for her hand.

"Dr. Brennan."

With a huff, she placed her hand in mine and I took everything into overdrive, winking at her to ensure she knew I was being intentionally over-the-top. She smirked in acknowledgment, thankfully amused by my fake "rich man voice" and talk of the "Washington Brennans" being dear friends of mind.

The reception was in full swing upon our arrival, the many baffled guests having decided that free food and booze was a great way to spend a Saturday no matter what the circumstances. Immediately, I noticed Zack had skipped the reception. Hopefully, Bones would take that as an expected decision from her intern and not ask any questions I really didn't want to answer today.

"It's amazing what money can pull off on zero notice."

"Hodgins isn't a snob," she chided me. "Everything he does is for Angela. She wanted to marry quickly. He made it happen."

"I know, Bones. It's just... I didn't grow up around this, you know?"

"Neither did I."

I nodded. "Yeah, but you've been dragged to events like this by work many times. You've adjusted."

She smiled. "That's true. You've also adjusted. You didn't even take off your tie in the car as you claimed you would."

"Crap!" I tugged absently on it, suddenly annoyed by its presence. "Can I stuff it in your purse?"

"No!" She grinned, pointing towards the bar. "Maybe you can get me drunk and I'll agree in a moment of weakness."

"So tequila shots, then? On it," I replied, hurrying away.

"Booth! Booth, don't you dare!"

Bones was a beautiful woman, naturally so. Dressed up as she was today, she was stunning, and I looked forward to days like these in anticipation of her radiance. But with her dressier attire came an added bonus: Bones couldn't walk very quickly in heels. I left her in my proverbial dust, protesting and pleading as I darted around people I didn't recognize to reach the bar. I didn't order tequila shots, although I DID get my double of the Blue and a glass of Bones' favourite white wine.

_Why did I even bring up tequila?_

Tequila was a loaded subject... Too many memories. God, what the hell was going on with me today? Maybe the hits Max threw did some brain damage.

"_Booooth_!" my partner whined, joining me. "You left me!"

I passed her the wine and shrugged. "So? You weren't keen on being escorted, even though Angela ordered me to."

Her cheeks flushed as she sipped her glass. "Maybe I don't mind," she murmured.

My heart came to a dead stop. "Huh?"

"Well, you're my friend," she said softly. "I know you don't really think of me as weak or a lesser person. It would be like... going undercover."

And bam! Instant hard on as the thought of _Roxie _came to mind, and with it, the cavalier sexual charisma of Tony.

"Let's have fun," I whispered conspiratorially.

With a clink of our glasses, the deal was sealed.

* * *

A solid 75% of the guests were complete strangers to Bones and I, which made the whole "undercover game" hilarious. We kept our own names, although Bones introduced herself simply as "Temperance" to those she didn't know. We toyed with people, referring to ours as a "mutually beneficial relationship" and dropping the term "consorts", reveling in the raised eyebrows and intrigue. When Bones left to use the washroom, I couldn't help but plant the seed that she was royalty with a small group of elitists I determined were directors at Cantilever.

"I'm her bodyguard," I explained. "She refuses the appropriate security personnel as a matter of routine, but I've earned her trust over the years. Her parents are displeased, but they know I'll ensure her safe return."

"Oh my goodness! Have you faced many threats, Mister...?" one woman asked.

"Kevin," I replied with a straight face. "And yes, we have, but I have a wealth of skills that I employ successfully."

It was all I could do not to tip my hand and call Bones "Whitney".

Several rounds in, we'd found ourselves at our table, watching Cam hit on a guy Bones knew to be acquainted with Billy Gibbons, although _how _she knew this, she was reluctant to disclose. She simply muttered "Vegas" and left it at that. The music playing was a raucous mix of classic rock, retro hits and a little of the contemporary crap that did nothing for me. Currently, I was listening in confusion to what sounded like Tom Jones doing a disco version of an old 80s song.

"This can't be Tom Jones," I muttered aloud.

"Tom who?"

"Bones, come on! You've gotta know who Tom Jones is."

_Madness_. _That's who did the original version_!

"_Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air_? The Carlton Dance?" I prodded.

"I don't know what that means."

"Oh hell, I'll show you. Come on!"

I quickly ditched my jacket, pulled her to her feet and led her out onto the packed dance floor, chuckling at her anxious look. I'd yet to see her dance to anything uptempo at an event but there had to be a first time for everything. Besides, I knew I was a goofy dancer myself, so it wouldn't matter. We'd be just another drunk couple dancing at a wedding.

"Okay, now that I have enough room to pull this off, watch and learn: The Carlton Dance."

I'd mastered this years ago, courtesy of losing a bet to Jared. My penalty was to bust it out in front of the hockey team, wearing nothing but a towel. Not my finest hour, but at least I'd gotten it bang-on. With a ridiculous grin fueled by obscene amounts of scotch, I began to swing my arms and move.

Bones burst out laughing. "Booth!" she gasped.

Several nearby guests hooted in appreciation and one even joined me in making an ass of myself. I love alcohol. Bones laughed even harder as mystery guy joined in, gasping for air. Eventually I buckled forward and laughed, my hands pressing into my thighs to keep me from falling over. The scotch was catching up to me fast.

"Booth... that... There are no sufficient words," she managed at last, drawing a deep breath.

"I aim to please," I quipped. "Now, let's dance!"

I managed to rope her into a blend of disco and random, wild movements. The flush creeping up her neck betrayed just how intoxicated she'd become. I couldn't even begin to recall how many drinks we'd had, but my guess was we'd blown well over any previous efforts. Vaguely, I was aware I'd pay dearly in the morning for the debauchery but I didn't fucking care. I'd managed to convince my partner to dance and we kept moving through the Tom Jones track, Springsteen, Queen (Bones actually _knew_ that song) and the highlight of the set, an old Beastie Boys song that I admittedly didn't care for but Bones _loved_.

"I know this song!" she shrieked excitedly, strumming out air guitar riffs.

"You don't know Britney Spears, but you know this?"

"Angela."

One word, full explanation. Angela's tastes ran all over the music map, but she had a penchant for hitting clubs with Bones in tow. I was suddenly reminded of the case where she'd managed to kick a guy through a wall loaded with meth and a mummy and inhaled; it took a great deal of willpower to not laugh. Everything was funny and it was wonderful.

"_Sabotage!_"she shouted along with several others.

"See, isn't this fun? Having drinks, cutting footloose..."

She nodded, gesturing towards the bar. "Yes! I find that I am somewhat inebriated for a change and it is rather amusing. I want more wine. No, scotch!"

"Scotch!"

Stoic faces of fake sobriety fixed in place, we crossed the room and calmly ordered doubles of that bad-ass Blue Label. I sensed the bartender knew we were due to be cut off, but had decided that we were at least pleasant drunks with manners, so we'd earned a brief respite. That and Cam walked up to the bar with a bemused expression.

"Having fun?"

"Yes! I find that the amount of fun I am experiencing is inversely correlated with my sobriety!" Bones cheerily replied.

"Most of us find that to be true," Cam replied with a grin. "And you, Seeley?"

"Best wedding that never happened _ever_!" And it was. No speeches, no toasts, no crappy love songs to sit through – just fun and liquor.

"Yeah, what the hell happened?"

"Well, the government found out –"

My hand clamped over my partner's blabbermouth. "A bunch of stuff we promised we'd keep quiet, right Bones?"

"Mmmhhmpphff hmmphrrgh."

Cam's eyebrow raised. "They're not in jail, are they?"

"Nothing like that. They're fine. The wedding had to be postponed, that's all."

Sharp teeth suddenly clamped into my palm and I cursed, shaking my hand out as Bones laughed her pretty ass off. She promptly clinked her glass off mine and drained her shot.

"More, please!"

"That freaking hurt!"

"Oh quit your whining, Seeley!" Cam teased.

"Yeah, _Seeley_, quit your whining!"

I glared at each of them in turn, aware that my vision was blurring slightly. "Don't call me Seeley, _Camille_, _Temperance_."

Another round appeared, a third double plunked down in front of Cam. I was vaguely aware of a toast made before knocking back the scotch. _It's time to stop_, I realized. I'd hit the cusp of Happy Drinking Booth land and what came next was Depressed Booth, Afraid Of Becoming His Father. Cam and Bones chatted about something behind me as I waved the bartender over.

"Do me a solid, man. No matter what we say, she and I are done."

"I was about to cut you off anyway," he replied discreetly. "That was what, round fifteen?"

I winked at him and spun around. "Ladies, the dance floor beckons!"

"Oh no, I don't dance," Cam protested.

"But everyone dances," Bones countered, slurring her words slightly. "Anthropologically speaking, dance is a record of a culture, but also shapes it with each new performance through an exchange between the performers and audience. Dance Anthropology, or Ethnochoreology, is fascinating!"

I stumbled back a step."That exists?"

"Of course it does!"

Cam chuckled. "All the same, I think I'll spectate. Why don't you two perform?"

I was now the one being dragged to the dance floor by my partner, who suddenly paused to kick off her heels and shoot them under a nearby table. "Stupid shoes," she muttered.

_Stupid tie_. I suddenly remembered its annoying presence and fumbled it into submission. The moment I popped open the top few buttons, I felt miles better.

"Where's your purse?"

Bones did a little spin, giggling. "They're keeping it behind the bar for me."

I tossed the tie onto the nearest table. "Fuck it."

"Oh! Oh Booth, you kind of look like that guy in that film..."

"What guy?"

"The movie with all of the dancing, and the illegal abortion performed poorly... There was a melon."

"_Dirty Dancing_?"

"Yes! Angela loves it. I enjoy the music. Now, wait..." Without warning, she reached up with both hands and messed up my hair. "There! You're the teacher guy."

Little did she fucking know how accurate that was. I'd paid my way through college by teaching dance, primarily to married women with roaming hands, none of whom rammed diamonds into my pockets.

"Are you asking for a lesson?" I quipped.

"Maybe I am," she demurred.

Given her predilection for moves like the Electric Slide, I figured a little swing-enhanced freestyle might be feasible for her. Of course, I was too drunk for any sort of forethought about propriety, which was how I came to be pressed up against her with one hand firmly on the small of her back where it seemed to belong, the other clutching her hand in a basic frame. The music shifted into a classic rock beat I knew well.

"Alright Bones, follow my lead," I whispered into her ear.

"_I got to have a shot of what you got, is oh so sweet  
You got to make it hot, like a boomerang I need a repeat_..."

She was quick to pick up the modified steps, her sense of pattern bringing her in line. Mainly, I opted to lead her in an uptempo swing-enhanced sway with the odd twirl thrown in to make her giggle. The melodic sound of her happiness left me breathless. How was it possible for this woman to be _more_ beautiful? And yet, she was.

"_You got to whip it up and hit me like a ton of lead  
If I blow my top, will you let it go to your head?_"

Goddamn it, she was going to my head, alright. This was bad, so very bad. I didn't care. I dipped her low, sucking in a deep breath as I became all-too-aware of the swells of her breasts beneath the clingy satin dress. Pulling her up, she stumbled slightly and fell against my chest.

"Can you do lifts? Like the movie?" she asked.

"They take a lot of balance, Bones, and your dress is not exactly accommodating."

"I can rip it!"

"No, God, please don't do that..." I twirled her around and brought her back against my chest, hoping the shift would distract her.

"It just looked so fun in the film," she murmured.

Studying her dress (and her ass in said dress), I reached a compromise. I was pretty sure I'd end up in the hospital, but sacrifices in the name of the greater good were my expertise. I led her through the turns and she was facing me once more.

"Do you trust me?"

She nodded. "I trust you, Booth."

"'Kay. Wrap your hands loosely around my neck and let me do the rest."

She complied immediately, her head tilted up to meet my eyes. My throat was suddenly parched at the closeness of her, of the intimacy. It was a disaster waiting to happen, flirting with fires this intense.

_Burn, baby, burn_.

Seizing her by the waist, I lifted her into the air and swung her legs to my left, then my right, bringing her feet back to the ground without destroying my back or breaking her legs. She was beaming and I knew that if I was doomed to burn, she'd happily join me in the flames.

"Again!"

"I could try something trickier, but you have to promise not to kill me if I drop you."

"You won't drop me."

The conviction, the utter _faith_ in her words... It was overwhelming. I knew she trusted me, that we had a great friendship. I knew that I could rely on her, just as she believed that I would be there for her whenever she needed me. But in that second where I understood the deeper meaning of those words, I felt a weight lifting. The burden of the pain I'd caused her after that first case and the fallout... I could let it go.

I would never hurt her. She knew it as I knew it.

"Alright, when I swing you around and grab under your knees, swing up to grab my other arm."

The song drew to its bluesy conclusion as I scooped her up into a cradle position, drew a deep breath then swung her until her legs wrapped across my upper back. With a quick prayer I seized her by the knees and let her dangle and nearly cheered as she instinctively went with the momentum and seized my arm. With a gentle push, her body flipped over my arm and she came back to her feet, looking stunned.

"Are you alright? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, no... That was intense! Where'd you learn how to do that?"

"Some movie," I lied.

Another song featuring Angela's dad followed hard upon it and I knew this was someone's idea of an inside joke. At least it was danceable, right? And dance we did for a good hour, both fast and slow numbers. I honestly couldn't tell which was worse for my increasingly blue balls. Mercifully, Bones seemed oblivious to her effect on me. Cam, however, was on to me and made a point of pulling me aside before her departure.

"What's going on with you two?" she hissed.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Are you two dating in secret?"

"What? No!"

"Seeley –"

"I'm serious, Camille. We're both a little drunk and maybe a bit flirty, but there's nothing going on. I just..." How could I explain this to her? "Look, she's had a hard year. I encouraged her to think of today like undercover work and let loose. That's all."

"Okay, I believe you... But your libido's not going to keep in check much longer if you keep grinding together."

_Crap_. "Do we really look that bad?"

"Would we be having this chat if you didn't?"

_Double crap_. "Yeah, I'll call us a cab and get her home."

"I bet you will!" Cam teased.

"Shut up."

With Cam leaving, I spun around and searched the now half-empty reception for my partner. Bones was leaning against a table nearby, chatting with a guy clearly staring straight into her cleavage. Fighting the urge to walk over and slug the guy, I opted instead for the more subtle approach.

"Hey!" I greeted her, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her close. "Who's this?"

"This is... I don't know. I was killing time waiting for you."

Bones: honest and blunt like a baseball bat to the brain. Staring Guy sulked and departed, leaving us on the edge of the dance floor as AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" came on. _Oh, we are done. Done, done, done._ Because if I took her back out on that dance floor, I was bound to teach her _dirty_ dancing.

"I think I'm beat. Bones. You ready to head home?"

"I concur. Our unusual alcohol consumption is interfering with my sense of equilibrium."

I chuckled. "Alright, genius. Let's find your shoes and purse."

The shoes had somehow gravitated to the opposite end of the reception space, tucked behind a statue of some Greek God. The purse was thankfully with the bartender, all belongings intact (I made her check). Draping my jacket over my arm, I escorted her to the front entrance to wait for our cab.

"I wish I was in more sensible footwear," she grumbled. "The weather's nice for a walk around the Mall."

"We can walk around the Mall anytime."

"Yes, but I enjoy our walks."

I smiled. "Me too."

The cab pulled up to the curb moments later and the two of us slid into the backseat. I gave the driver her address first, wanting to personally ensure her safe arrival home. Her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle a yawn. She was exhausted and now that I'd come to a full and complete stop, so was I.

"You can lean on me if you want to close your eyes and rest," I offered.

"Mmm. Okay."

I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her against my side. Her eyes fluttered briefly before settling closed and I listened to her breathe, rewinding the day's events. Nothing had gone the way I'd expected. Angela and Hodgins hadn't married, for starters. I hoped that this mess with Angela's other marriage could be resolved quickly, although I couldn't help but wonder how she'd forgotten to mention being married to the poor Bug Man. Dancing with my partner was also not something I'd counted on, aside from an obligatory slow dance or two, nor had I predicted a pseudo swing lesson in the mix. And then, there was Zack's letter –

_Fuck. How am I going to tell her? It'll break her heart._

She'd put up a brave face about it. She would speak of duty and her own travels abroad to identify remains during previous conflicts. But Bones would miss his companionship and fear the worst.

It could wait. It would wait. Tomorrow, I'll have a hangover from hell. But after my head stopped pounding, I'd tell her. I'd explain it. Somehow.

The cab drew to a halt outside her apartment and I lightly nudged Bones awake. She blinked once, twice, three times, slowly. _Yeah, I'm not going anywhere_. I paid the driver and stepped out of the cab, walking her inside the building.

"The cab didn't wait," she observed as we entered the lobby.

"Didn't tell him to. It's fine, Bones."

"I could have made it upstairs just fine."

"I know. Indulge me in my need to protect you, alright?"

"Okay."

This was an old routine for me by now. On nights of paperwork and celebratory shots, I often wandered down to security and had them call me a cab. Once I knew she was safe inside her locked apartment, I'd head down to my good friend Jordan and be on my way. No big deal.

Her fingers fumbled with her key, missing the lock twice before she finally managed to slip it inside. I held the door open for her, cognizant of her increasingly wavering gait. She was due to faceplant into bed any minute now. I knew the feeling well.

She paused just inside and turned towards me. "Thank you, Booth. I had fun."

"You're welcome, Bones."

Her hair, once neatly and elegantly braided, was tumbling loose in several places. The tendrils grazing her cheeks lent a softness to her look. She was relaxed. It was a rare sight.

"You could stay in the guest room," she offered.

Dangerous waters. Could I keep my scotch-fueled sex drive in check? After a moment's hesitation, I decided I definitely could. I was in danger of faceplanting in the hallway.

"I think I should."

She smirked, swaying slightly. "I thought so. Come on."

She kicked her heels off and padded down the hall, her purse abandoned halfway to her room. She paused outside the guest room, where I'd stayed a few times after crashing during paperwork marathons, waiting for me to stagger my way there.

"You know where everything is. Make yourself at home."

"Thanks, Bones."

She pressed up onto her toes and lightly kissed my right cheek, much to my surprise. I heard myself sigh in response and winced in embarrassment.

"Goodnight," she murmured before retreating into her room and closing the door.

"Goodnight," I replied softly to the empty hallway.

"_Gimme all your lovin', all your hugs and kisses too  
Gimme all your lovin', don't let up until we're through._.."

* * *

_**For the curious, the Tom Jones song mentioned is "Burning Down The House", a cover he did with The Cardigans that is way better than you'd expect. Seriously. The "other ZZ Top song" was La Grange of course, because it's sexy good times. **_

_**Bites readers - I slipped a subtle 'Easter Egg' in this one for a future one-shot I swear I will get done. Did you catch it?  
**_

_**Next week, we're back to angstier moments... Please leave me a note and tell me what you thought of my little bit of head canon... or songs you'd want to see B&B dance to while drunk at a wedding reception.  
**_


	11. Everlong

**_AN: This chapter takes us back before Porcelain... to the memories Booth has that reveal Brennan's pain. It may seem slightly OOC to you, but in chatting with readers (FaithInBones being one), I've come to feel that one of the best things about Brennan is she's full of surprises. Things come out of nowhere, like her listening to rap, for example. Angela's influences, Booth's influences... I feel she absorbs more than we are shown overtly on screen. I also come back to season five and her comments to Gordon about being willing to do anything to help Booth...  
_**

**_This one's been done for months, but I wanted to set the stage for it properly. I finally was able to slide the last puzzle piece into place last week. __For those prone to tears, you may want to ready yourself.  
_**

**_Tag To: The Wannabe In The Weeds  
_**

**_Disclaimer: I continue to not own Bones, nor do I own the cryptic and haunting lyrics of "Everlong" by the Foo Fighters. I simply know that when I heard it, this piece came into my skull immediately and had to be written.  
_**

* * *

**Everlong (Foo Fighters)  
**

The first time I heard her sing, it was totally and utterly unexpected. Ever have someone completely turn your expectations on their head and do a Mexican hat dance around them? Ever know someone capable of doing it on a consistent basis? That's what it's like to be partners with Bones. Every time I feel I've got a read on her, she throws me for another loop.

Some people grow tired of her in short doses. Me? What can I say? I like a roller coaster. Too bad I'd blown my ass up grabbing a drink: I was looking forward to conning her into a slow dance to "I Wanna Know What Love Is". Just to see her blush.

The second time, it was equally unexpected but bittersweet. Her heart was heavy with the burden of family lost and found – sins of the father. I knew those well. A few bars exchanged over drinks, but it was good for her. She needed a touchstone in the madness.

Neither occasion was a happy one, though. So when Dr. Temperance Brennan, bestselling author and world-famous forensic anthropologist, announced that she also sang better than Cyndi Lauper, I filed that information away. We had a case to solve and I'd managed to pick up a bit of a stalker along the way. But with the perp behind bars, the usual celebratory drinks became a family affair, so to speak. I rallied the squinty troops because Bones needed to have fun. She needed to just let loose and give in to life.

She wore green that night, and I'll always remember the way my breath hitched at the sight of her. She's a beautiful woman on any day, but green and blue are her colours. She seemed confused by my choice of venue, then panicked as I cajoled her into singing. Even Sweets promised to join her in the hijinks and somehow, I suspect the thought of being outdone by a psychologist, coupled with me smiling at her in that way I _knew_ she couldn't resist, sealed the deal.

I knew she could sing alright enough that she wouldn't embarrass herself. I never would have put her in the position otherwise. But when she threw down her jacket and grabbed the mic, something magical happened.

Bones can sing. She can. God, I had to give it to her, watching in awe: she could at least trade vocal blows with Cyndi. But more important than that, she was so happy up there. In that moment, I think she understood just how loved she is. She was somehow more beautiful than ever before, radiating her love in return.

And then... Fuck, I should have known. I should have known that she would follow me there. I should have listened to the kid and his profile. And when I finally heeded her hissed call and saw the gun, there was only one thought: _Not her_.

I drew my gun as I stepped into the line of fire, the words repeating: _Not her_. As I hit the ground, the fire spreading throughout my chest, another thought: _I failed her._

But she didn't fail me. My vision began to haze, but I saw a flash of movement and heard a second shot. The look in her eyes as she pressed her hands to my wound told me all I needed to know: she'd killed for me. That's what partners do.

"Come on, Booth!" I heard her plead.

I wanted to hang on. I didn't want to let her down any further. But the pain, it was blinding, and between the screams and sobs and her desperate shouts, I could see Parker's face. My life in strobe-like memories. And I was cold. So cold. The pain as she pulled me into her arms, weeping into my jacket, it was erased by the warmth of her I so desperately needed. And then, blackness.

* * *

I come to in the ambulance, although my vision refuses to clear. Streaks of colour penetrate my pulsing head as the gurney jostles with every pothole on the road. She is there: I feel her hand, gripping mine as tightly as she ever had. It's raining. I feel it on my cheeks. But then the monitors beep and she curses and I know the rain is falling from her vibrant eyes. God, I want to see them. I will my eyes to see her, blinking furiously.

"Booth, please." A whisper, pained. "Please don't give up."

I squint and there she is: hazy, but there for me, as she always is. The sirens are suddenly roaring, waging a war with the pounding of my erratic heart in my ears. It isn't fair. I want to hear her. I want to tell her she sings better than Cyndi Lauper. I want to tell her how lucky I feel to be counted among her friends. But there is pain, there is cold. The Reaper is breathing down my neck.

I hear her, whispering over the din: "Booth believes in you, so help him. Help him, _please_..."

She is praying for me, in her own way. It's not working. I've faced death before, come precariously close to the precipice, and I am there again. Only now, I am older and weary and it's just too goddamn hard to breathe. I want to, but I don't know if I can, not even for her.

"I'll do anything, just hold on. Don't you leave me, Booth!"

If I'm going to die, I want that promised choir of heavenly angels. I think I deserve it. It takes me several tries but at last, _at last she hears me_. Her eyes widen and I groan in pain despite myself. Her hand, sticky with blood – my blood, not hers, thank God – cradles my cheek and she sobs just once, loudly. And then, she sings a different song, but one I know, all the same.

"_Hello, I've waited here for you  
Everlong  
Tonight, I throw myself into  
And out of the red  
Out of her head, she sang_

_Come down_  
_And waste away with me_  
_Down with me_  
_Slow how you wanted it to be_  
_I'm over my head_  
_Out of her head she sang..._"

"ETA two minutes!" a man's voice calls out upfront.

Bones... she's always surprising me. Post-grunge. Huh. Never saw it coming. I've played this album several times in the car, but she's never once indicated any interest.

She presses her forehead to mine and sings louder, even as the rain continues to fall from the stormy orbs gazing into mine.

"_And I wonder  
When I sing along with you  
If everything could ever feel this real forever  
If anything could ever be this good again.._."

Her face suddenly comes into sharp relief, and it is then I see just how desperate she is. Her grip on my hand is almost vicious, but I understand. I have to pay attention.

"_The only thing I'll ever ask of you  
You've got to promise not to stop when I say when_."

She kisses my head as the shifting beneath me stops and slips away. My best friend. My partner. I can't keep my eyes open, but I have to hang on. I have to promise not to stop.

* * *

I wake up, I am told, five hours later, in serious but stable condition. I wake up to Cullen, who's the last person I imagined would be here, and just about the last person I want to see. I ask for my partner and am told it's not possible.

The press has caught wind of the shooting. They're reporting I may be dead. It's given Cullen ideas.

If you've ever believed it possible to outrun your past, let me tell you that it's not fucking likely. My rough years of an average solve rate and gambling the nights away had been saved for a rainy day, and Cullen had come to collect. _You're going to be dead to the world. We're going to pull that bastard out from under his rock_.

"You can't put my son through that," I tell him.

"You can give us a list of people, but keep it to a bare minimum," Cullen says. "This is a matter of national security, Agent Booth."

"Easy," I reply, coughing and wincing. "Parker, Bones, Pops, Jared and Rebecca."

"Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes, Dr. fucking Brennan!" I snap. "Who rode in the ambulance with me?"

"Agent Booth – "

"She's family," I insist. "Or no deal."

Cullen reluctantly agrees and I am left to my own devices. They're going to hide me away in the cancer ward until I'm stable, under a fake name. He leaves to arrange it and I pass out. In my head, I can still hear her singing softly in my ear.

* * *

I hate safe houses. I hate being babysat. I hate eating crappy burgers every day and I hate not going for a run. I sulk and watch TV and generally am a pain in the goddamn ass to my caretakers, counting the days. They delay my funeral, just to make sure the bastard knows all about it. I miss my son desperately. I miss Bones. But no calls. No chances of detection. _This is our only chance_, or so everyone keeps telling me. I'm a lab rat in a cage, just spinning my wheel and hitting the bar, hoping for a crumb of cheese.

How's that for a squinty metaphor?

By chance, I flip the channel on day five and MTV is actually playing a music video. Better: they're playing the song haunting my dreams.

"Foo Fighters, Seeley?" one agent sneers.

"Go fuck yourself, Jackson," I snarl. "You blast Britney Spears from your shitmobile car. You have no room to talk."

"_Breathe out, so I can breathe you in  
Hold you in  
And now I know you've always been  
Out of your head  
Out of my head, I sang_..."

For four minutes, I can not only hear her, but smell her. The loneliness fades and I find myself singing along – not with the video, but with her.

"_And I wonder  
When I sing along with you  
If everything could ever feel this real forever  
If anything could ever be this good again  
The only thing I'll ever ask of you  
You've got to promise not to stop when I say when, she sang..._"

I'm suffocating in here and I know it's wrong to be thinking of her so often. I know it is. There's a line, for her own good. Pam only _thought_ we were a couple and she nearly took Bones from me. The evidence is so very clear: I need to erase her touches. Concentrate on the respect I owe her, the gratitude for helping to save my life. It's the relief of surviving a brush with death blurring the lines, crossing the wires. That's all. Perfectly natural.

But for four minutes, I indulge in a world where she sings at my side. I don't regret a single second.

* * *

_**Oh, Booth... Always talking yourself out of a relationship with her, aren't you? **_

_**I love studying these episodes... in addition to Porcelain, I did a Brennan POV of being told Booth's died in the Bites series that for all intents and purposes, you can consider a companion to this story. Everlong-Fade To Red-Porcelain are a little trilogy of sorts.  
**_

_**Fade To Red (ugh, why can't FF just allow links already?): (you know what site you're on right now) /s/8339962/12/The-Bites-Of-The-Partnership-Pie  
**_

_**Speaking of Bites, while you wander over there, have a look at Even Heroes Need To Be Held. It will be relevant to a future chapter of The Mixed Tape.  
**_

_**Leave me some words, tell me what you think. Has your opinion of Porcelain shifted with the knowledge of Everlong (or even Fade To Red)? Also, where shall we go next? Pick a season, any season, including 8. Let's see what inspires me... Thank you, as always, for reading, reviewing and sharing this story. It means a lot to me.  
**_


	12. Madness

**_AN: I'm a day late but in my defence, this one's two episodes for the price of one and I'm working two jobs again. Angst, anyone?  
_**

**_Tag To: The Partners In The Divorce; The Doctor In The Photo  
_**

******_Disclaimer: I continue to not own Bones, nor do I own the lyrics of "Madness" by Muse.  
_**

* * *

**Madness (Muse)  
**

_"I, I can't get these memories out of my mind,_  
_ And some kind of madness has started to evolve..."_

It started as a tiny lump, perhaps the size of a walnut. Barely discernible, yet he somehow sensed it jostling within him. Indigestion of a kind. It took up residence in the central region of his gut, occasionally tumbling around and jamming into his organs, just to remind him. _I'm still here_, it whispered ominously as he made love to her. _I'm not going away_.

Adjustment was necessary, but it was one born of joy, of relief. Reunion. But the lump, it swelled to the size of a plum, laughing at his foolish notions. It was a stone, harder than the failed pancakes she'd made that morning.

_Things aren't okay_.

And maybe they weren't, but how could they be? The system had turned on them for a hellish summer, tearing them apart for the third time since that fateful meeting. Only this time, the stakes had been higher than ever before. He'd tossed and turned each and every night, mourning the day when the scent of her had finally worn off the pillows. Worse, the bastard responsible was free again, a promise of pain and grief his farewell to them.

_But we're together now._

Booth thought it would all snap back into place, that they would simply _fit_. In hindsight, he should have anticipated trouble. But it wasn't until the grating Carmichaels put the ethers of his fear into words that he understood the problem.

"People change," Gavin Carmichael said.

"And if you don't believe that, I feel sorry for you," added Melanie Carmichael.

The look of terror on his partner's face mirrored one he'd seen three years' prior on the steps of the Hoover and his heart stopped cold.

The lump continued to fester as the investigation wore on, metastasizing quickly as the brewing storm crashed over them.

* * *

"I was going to take Christine to the children's museum," Bones said calmly.

"_You_ were?"

"Yes."

And there it was, just like that: he wasn't there. He wasn't even in her thoughts, it seemed. They'd been apart for months and already, she was making solo plans. It was Rebecca all over again, just before he'd desperately proposed, both to do right by her and their child and to keep her from inevitable flight.

"Well, I was thinking that maybe, you know, we can go to the carousel, give her another chance – "

She cut him off quickly. "Why? I told you she didn't like it."

"I know, but maybe it'll be different, you know, now that her _dad_ is there," Booth explained.

He had no idea why this was such a sticking point with him. Somewhere within, he understood that it likely wouldn't make a difference. But he had _missed it_. He hadn't seen Christine's reaction to her first carousel. Couldn't she understand that?

And then, the bottom fell out.

"Are you saying I didn't know how to take care of my daughter?"

She was clearly hurt at the very suggestion, although he didn't believe he'd made it. Had he suggested that?

"What? Wait a second, Bones – "

"It wasn't easy out there, Booth!" she cried out.

"Here we go again!" he snapped.

The lump turned and pumped bile throughout his system, and suddenly, there was only anger, only rage. Because people _did_ change. Temperance had changed. His daughter had grown – changed. And him? He'd been left in the dust. But who cared? It was all about _her_, wasn't it? _Her _new experiences, _her _memories with their daughter. What about _his memory _of his family running off into the night, crushing what had been one of the brightest moments of his life into the deepest despair he'd ever felt? What about his memories of sleepless nights and desk duty and crying on the floor of Christine's room after talking to Parker and trying to reassure his son a world away?

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'? You're not _out there_ anymore, Bones, okay? You're back, and I'm part of your life, remember?"

She scoffed. "Yeah, it's hard to forget."

"Okay, what's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"I'm not getting into this now. You're angry."

"Of _course _I'm angry," he snapped. "Huh? Wouldn't you be angry? I try to understand you, but it's like you wish you were still out there!"

"Don't be absurd!"

She was so damn _indignant_! So oblivious!

"Argh! God, maybe you should just try and seeing things from my point of view – how I'm seeing things. Because it ain't pretty here, from what I'm seeing. I get shut out all the time –"

"I'm not going to fight. We'll talk later when you are capable of being rational."

He was trapped in a goddamn Dr. Phil episode. He slammed the wheel in disgust.

The lump became a knot the size of his fist, pulsing within.

* * *

He tried again once they'd reached Bartlett's floor. He needed answers. He needed reassurance. With every minute of silence between him, he felt the chasm widening.

"You know, you can't just cut me off like that because you're scared to fight."

"I'm not engaging, Booth."

"Oh, right, that's it, _sure_. That's right. Just run away, just hide behind that big brain of yours, escape all the messiness," he raged.

"Acting like an adult is not hiding," she insisted.

It was suddenly uncomfortably warm. He tugged at his tie absently, seeking relief from the fist clawing its way from his stomach to his esophagus.

"Well, you know what? You're going to have to face it sooner or later."

She spun around suddenly, and the anger in her eyes was a knife in his gut. Her words, however, confirmed his worst fears.

"Do _not _tell me how to live! We are _not_ married and we are both free agents and I've done just fine on my own!"

"Fine!"

_She wants to leave me_, he realized.

"Fine!" she echoed.

"Fine!"

Things were anything but fine. Booth was losing his family – _again_.

"Hey, is everything okay here?" the contractor asked.

"No," his partner replied.

"No!" he echoed.

Nothing was fine. She'd changed. She didn't want or need him. Not like he needed her.

Bones was all business now. "I need to get to your construction chute," she explained.

"Wait now, that's a very dangerous area. I can't let you go back there," he protested.

Booth thrust his badge into his face. "FBI! Angry FBI!"

It was enough of a distraction that she was able to push past and examine the chute, where she quickly determined that her theory was sound. This was where the lawyer had likely met his end. Booth was satisfied to simply have the chute brought back to the Jeffersonian and retreat to lick his metaphorical wounds, perhaps consult a lawyer of his own to ensure he wouldn't find himself in the hell Rebecca had created with her gallivanting over Europe with his son, but his partner needed proof. Blood. And she wanted to find it inside of the damn chute.

"Wait! Now, this is _my _site. I'm responsible. You can't go in there!"

"He's right," Booth agreed. "You can't just go rappelling down some garbage chute!"

"He – he could be the murderer, Booth!" she countered, which got his attention. "He already admitted that Bartlett was suing him. Just – hold my feet."

Her purse fell to the ground as she prepped her equipment. Booth folded his arms over his chest, offended by her audacity. How _dare_ she shove him out of her life and expect him to just be at her beck and call? He wasn't a goddamn intern. He had a mind of his own.

"No," he replied firmly.

"Fine! Then as previously stated, I will act as the free agent I am."

"I'm not sticking around here and watching her kill herself," Lester announced, turning away.

"One move and I'll shoot you!" Booth snapped.

_He could be the killer_. She wasn't wrong. He was almost ready to vocalize that agreement when out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement: Bones going face-first into the damn chute without anything to tether her.

"Bones, no!" He flailed and grabbed her ankles and calves.

"Don't drop me," she calmly stated.

"I won't! Bones!"

He clung to her for dear life, fighting the pull of gravity as visions of horrors flashed in his mind. If he failed her... if she fell... _Oh God, don't let this happen. Don't let me screw this up_.

"I see blood and tissue, Booth," she announced within the chute.

He peered over her shoulder, tightening his grip. "What?"

"This is where he died."

It was, mercifully, not where _she _died.

* * *

"I just don't understand how two people like you got married in the first place."

He looked over at her and for a moment, he wanted to smile and agree. The Carmichaels were tripping over themselves to incriminate each other. It was almost comical. but then the fight they had (are still having?) was back at the forefront of his mind. Booth suddenly recognized worry on her face... not disdain or pure confusion.

The comparison he could feel her drawing was terrifying.

She disappeared after the interview, during the booking process. He assumed she'd gone home until he noticed her text, advising him to pick up Christine from the Hodgins residence on his way home. Baffled, his mind was fueled by the knot-fist's thirty different scenarios for Brennan breaking up with him as he drove. The worst was the one where she simply disappeared with Christine, never to be seen again. It was the least likely to come true, but the mere thought shattered him.

Which was why Hacker's call pissed him off beyond measure.

"_We need you to back up Narcotics on a bust_," he explained over the phone. "_Hostage situation. Very tense._"

"Those guys can handle it," Booth snapped.

"_They need a sniper, Agent Booth. A proficient one, in case negotiations fail_."

_Crap._ Booth cursed beneath his breath. This was an order, not a request, and the last thing he needed was to tangle with Hacker and his smug face.

"Fine. Text me the address and details," Booth grumbled.

It was a long drive to a nasty neighbourhood, and ultimately a complete waste of Booth's time. The idiot dealers had finally released their hostage just moments before Booth reached his position on the roof of the adjoining complex. Angrily thrusting his gear into the hands of the team leader, he slipped behind the wheel of the Sequoia and blasted the radio as loud as it would go.

He had to drown out the thoughts circling vulture-like inside his skull. He couldn't – wouldn't – believe in a world without Temperance Brennan at his side.

He followed a construction detour through side streets, drumming the wheel in time with the music until he came to a corner he recognized. His foot slammed on the brakes, earning an angry blast of a horn behind him.

_It was raining hard, the windshield wipers scarcely able to keep up._

Franklin street. Woodland. He hadn't been here in years, not since –

"_Why the hell are you out here, Bones?" he mumbled, parking on a side street. At the corner down the street, he saw her step out into the storm, oblivious to the icy water running down her face. _

He found himself parked on that same side street now, staring at the scene playing out as if it were happening all over again.

* * *

_**2010**_

Her face was ashen, her stature just a little slumped. Exhaustion. He knew how it clung to her frame, like a leering letch in a bar. She fought its grubby hands often, but this was a new intensity and it was terrifying to behold.

The kid had called him, genuinely worried.

"Dr. Brennan is incredibly vulnerable right now," he'd said.

"Sweets –"

"I'm scared, Agent Booth. I'm admitting that I'm scared for her. I've offered my help, but she won't take it. I couldn't get through."

Sweets was a bit of a wimp in the field, but Booth was increasingly worried as well. He'd heeded the call and now he was trailing his partner all over the city, right into the epicenter of D.C. poverty and crime.

He stepped out of the car, walking slowly across the pavement. This was his partner. They were supposed to be a team. So why hadn't he been with her all along?

_"Because I saw the similarities too," he whispered in the present. "Only I knew she could never be forgotten like Eames. I couldn't forget her."_

It had happened so quickly: had he not been approaching from his precise trajectory, he never would have spotted the car in time. She was caught in the headlights, lost between this world and the one she'd slipped inside over the last three days.

_"Dr. Brennan is incredibly vulnerable right now."_

The kid's words had echoed in his head as he ran into the road, shouting her name as he'd grabbed her and pulled her to safety.

"Bones, what are you doing here?"

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know. Following you to a bad part of town and saving your life. You know, the usual. Your turn."

"Lauren came to Woodland to beg the family of a brain-dead boy to give his heart to Sam Dworsky."

So she was still working the case, even if she wasn't fully... herself. "Oh. So, what, they were the ones that killed her?"

"No, Booth. No. When Lauren was really disappointed or upset, it's like Sweets said. She couldn't handle the intense emotion, so she'd do something dangerous."

"Right. Like coming here in the middle of the night," he stated pointedly, his heart still racing from his partner's near collision.

"I'm not her. We're not the same person at all. It's just the universe turned upside down for three days."

No, she wasn't the same person. But their story, it was reflected in the life of Lauren Eames. Distorted, perhaps, like a funhouse mirror. But it was there, and as they drove towards her apartment, Booth understood with sickening clarity that she had noticed the lines that could be drawn. Perhaps it was they that gave her the courage to speak aloud the truth he'd been silently denying.

"She never gave him a chance."

"Micah." He was dodging her implications, the car seeming to shrink in size.

"No, the helicopter pilot," she clarified. "He offered himself to her, but she never gave him a chance. That was her regret. I got the signal, Booth. I don't want to have any regrets."

His head pulsed as her unspoken words confirmed what he'd sensed for weeks now, ever since Angela had made a passing remark about men and stupidity. It was his dream and his nightmare all at once: she loved him, wanted to be with him... but he couldn't be with her.

"You know, I'm with someone, Bones. And Hannah – she's not a consolation prize. I love her."

He said it as much for himself as for her. Because he couldn't leave Hannah, couldn't betray her. He loved her. He did.

So why did he want nothing more than to embrace Bones and kiss her until their heads spun?

_"I, I tried so hard to let you go,_  
_ But some kind of madness is swallowing me whole, yeah..."_

She began to sob and his stomach turned, because he knew this pain. He knew exactly how it felt to love someone so completely, to bare yourself, expose your jugular, only to be torn apart for confessing weakness. He had moved on, had told her he would do so. So why did he feel so guilty?

Why did it feel as if he was betraying both women in his life?

"The last thing I want to do is hurt you, but those are the facts."

"I understand. I missed my chance." She laughed uncomfortably. "My whole world turned upside down. I can adjust."

"I did," he said quietly.

"Yes, you did."

"Do you want me to call someone to be with you?" he asked.

"No, I'm fine. Alone." She paused, allowing her words to bleed him out. "Thanks," she added.

They drove the twenty remaining minutes in silence, Booth mulling the chaos that he'd created. So many decisions he wished he could un-make. So many other roads to travel. Nothing was certain, save his instinctual understanding of her tensed posture.

She was going to bolt again.

He couldn't blame her for the desire to retreat; he'd done as much in accepting the offer to train in Afghanistan. But he'd had reason to return home, to come back to her. He'd effectively slammed the door on her minutes prior, which meant a lack of hope.

She'd often said she could work anywhere in the world she desired. Why would she stay now?

His anxiety reached a fever pitch as he'd called out that he would see her the next day, only to be met with silence. With trembling fingers, he dialed the number of the only person who could make it right and explained the mess they were in.

"_Why should I help you?"_

"You shouldn't," he admitted. "But help her. Please. Don't let me ruin her life."

A pause. _"This all could have been avoided if you'd just listened to her from the beginning, really listened to what she said."_

"Angela..."

"_I'm on my way."_

There was nothing to do but wait. Wait and wonder if he'd made the right decision. Wait and remember anew how much he hated himself for the way he'd come at her in front of the Hoover, pushing his desires onto her. Wait and wonder why he hadn't understood that she wouldn't call him from Maluku because that was Bones: she was consumed by her work at all times.

He slipped his lucky poker chip from his pocket and began worrying it, turning it over and over between his fingers. He had to pull it together, had to remember what it represented. But in remembering that, he recalled the motivation behind his recovery in the first place, and a tear slid down his cheek in frustration.

All he'd ever wanted to be was the kind of man she would be proud to know. The kind of man she could desire and maybe one day love. Maybe that was his fatal flaw, this need for love. He needed to be loved. There were worse things in the world, granted, but to pain a woman with such a kind and vast heart... Surely, this was a tremendous sin.

His hand thrust open the car door, immediately pulling it shut again. Hannah. She was a good woman too, and she loved him. She enjoyed making him laugh and had given up her preferred job to be with him. Betraying her would impinge his honour, a trait Bones admired in him. He would still lose, only twice over.

"How dare she tell me this now?" he muttered.

When had she realized she loved him? How she decided only now that she was willing to risk it all to be together? For a woman who seemingly plunged into dangerous situations without any concern for her welfare, how was love the one realm she'd cowered from for so long?

Flip, flip, flip went the chip.

He was being an asshole. After the loss of her family, of course she'd hidden from love. Loving someone meant opening up to the possibility of devastation at their loss.

_"I have finally seen the light,_  
_ And I have finally realized_  
_ What you mean..."_

Her lights remained on. All of them. She wasn't sleeping. Maybe she was already packing up her life, preparing to leave. Where the hell was Angela?

"Bones, don't go. Don't do it."

Again, the door opened, only this time, he found himself standing beside the car, staring up at her bedroom window. Should he go to her? Should he make her understand that hurting her was killing him, that if she'd only told him sooner, he would have been hers, heart and soul? Or would that be salt in the wounds he'd created?

Would there be any kindness to such cruelty?

"Booth!"

He glanced up and sighed in relief. "Angela."

"Has she come out?"

"No. Angela, I – "

"Not interested tonight. I'm here for Bren. You want sympathy? Go talk to the blonde."

"Angela, she knew I would move on," he protested.

"And you know her well enough to know that Bren doesn't change; she evolves. It's a slow but beautiful process. You settled for the synthetic 'new and improved' boxed model," Angela snapped. "Now go home, and let me take care of her."

The artist spun on her heel, jogging towards the front lobby doors. With a resolute sigh, Booth slipped back behind the wheel and turned over the engine. The craving began for a drink, but he refused it, driving past several bars. One bar would lead to another would lead to a third with a pool table and then, then he would never be worthy of her friendship.

He'd failed her enough for one night.

* * *

_"And now I need to know is this real love,_  
_ Or is it just madness keeping us afloat?_  
_ And when I look back at all the crazy fights we had,_  
_ Like some kind of madness was taking control, yeah..."_

He drove home slowly, mulling the past few weeks, studying them in a new light informed by his past failings. Context, she'd call it. Perspective.

He was being irrational, but then, when wasn't that the case? Brain and heart: it was their union. They'd endured so much together, not the least of which was his relationship with Hannah and the fallout that left him wallowing in rage and unable to shake the sense that he would never be enough for anyone. He'd held back on pursuing Bones for months, needing to find faith that maybe it wasn't just him, that he wasn't too flawed a man to hold love together. For all of the whispering inside his skull that she had only ever become his by pregnant chance, he remembered her words on the steps of that church and trusted in her sincerity.

They had love. Real, honest love. The kind that most people dream of but never experience. Their bond had been tested in every possible way he could imagine and still, still they remained a unit. Still, she trusted so wholeheartedly in him that she would dive into a chute of death face-first and know he would grab her legs, no matter what he said.

"Pelant is the goddamn villain here," Booth muttered. "Why are we taking it out on each other?"

But even that was inevitable. Two intensely stubborn people could never _not_ argue. And when they threw down the gauntlets, they put MMA fighting to shame. Booth wasn't proud of this, but it seemed a part of their chemistry.

Turning onto their street, he recalled her insistence on not fighting while angry and winced at a sharp pang of guilt. She'd tried so hard not to be cruel, but he'd pushed. It was his habit, and she'd resisted, as was hers, until she exploded.

_Maybe she didn't mean it. Maybe the "free agent" crap was just spite_. _Or maybe I finally drove her away with my constant accusations about her wanting to be on the run still._

He could still remember how incredible her body felt against his in that crappy motel, how the sheer relief of holding her had buckled his knees. He could hear her demanding to come home, hear Max's anger that she'd found a way to summon him to her side, because _she couldn't live like this anymore_.

"_It wasn't easy out there, Booth!_"

Life was too goddamn short to waste it on carousels and pancakes. They could never have back what Pelant had stolen from them, but by arguing between themselves over its impact, weren't they just letting him steal more time?

Booth called Angela from the driveway, quietly asking if their friends would keep their daughter for a night.

"_I was going to suggest it when you arrived_," Angela replied gently. "_Don't let go of her, Booth. Not now._"

"I don't plan to," he mumbled before hanging up and texting an update to Brennan.

He only hoped that she shared his desires.

* * *

_"And now I have finally seen the end (finally seen the end)_  
_ And I'm not expecting you to care (expecting you to care)_  
_ But I have finally seen the light (finally seen the light)_  
_ I have finally realized (realized)_  
_ I need to love..."_

He was several rounds in when she came home and the scotch sloshed uncomfortably in anticipation of the talk they needed to have. But he had to know she wanted to stay, that she wanted _them_. He desperately wanted to believe she did, but right now, the entire world seemed to spin and every synapse fired with pain, pain, pain. Escape. Flight, not fight.

He didn't want to fight anymore.

"Hi."

"Hi." She walked in slowly, setting her purse on the couch gingerly.

"Kinda late," he prompted.

And it was: even with his detour to Woodland, she'd arrived a solid hour behind him.

Anxiety marred her beautiful features. "Well, I... I went to see Sweets."

"Why?"

He swallowed back the emotions bubbling to the surface, ordered his fears into silence. _She's leaving, no she's not, she is, fuck, why'd she willingly talk to Sweets?_ The thoughts were a steady stream of frantic words.

"'Cause... something is _wrong_ with me."

And she meant it, very much so. The words were a knife to his heart. He suddenly thought back to the Hoover, to her fears of hurting him, and they've come full circle to a night he's regretted ever since. But this time, he had to get it right. There was even more to lose, because he'd seen how wrong she was then and knew she was wrong now.

_"Come to me_  
_ Just in a dream._  
_ Come on and rescue me._  
_ Yes I know, I can be wrong,_  
_ Maybe I'm too headstrong..."_

He rose slowly, approaching her cautiously. "No, Bones, nothing is wrong with you."

"No, I thought today when we apologized to each other that everything was fine."

"Because we were being polite."

"Yes!"

He rubbed his eyes, weary. _Fuck fuck fuck_. Of course she would think that. _She doesn't deal in mixed messages and passive-aggressiveness. _ Her plain honesty was one of her remarkable qualities he'd always treasured.

"We were polite, but you still knew everything _wasn't _fine," she elaborated, visibly pained.

"That was, uh... hoping that it _would _be. You know, in the future."

"But only if we admit that it isn't fine right now."

He couldn't disagree. Running from their problems wouldn't solve a damn thing.

"Sweets says that I am subconsciously rebelling against the fact that my happiness is now contingent upon your happiness and Christine's."

_Ugh, I could kill that kid_! How could the shrink have planted such crap in her head? Never had Booth sensed any resentment over their relationship, let alone their daughter.

"Sweets, he's good with the psychology, okay, but we're _more _than psychology." And in that moment, relief set in as he became certain of a truth he shared. "We're going to be okay."

"I just, I don't want to be polite about this," she stressed, pressing her hands against him.

"Well, I'll just make sure it doesn't happen again," he replied.

"How?"

He blurted out the most ridiculous thing that came to mind: "I'll fart when I kiss you."

She cracked up and suddenly, they were themselves again. He, the goofy guy; she, the serious scientist secretly thrilled with his shenanigans.

"Oh my God..." Her grin matched his.

"I was mad," he admitted reluctantly."I lost you and Christine for three months. I'm never going to be able to get that time back."

"I have a way to fix that."

Puzzled, he asked, "What, you have a time machine in your basement?"

"No, but we can take Christine to the carousel, even though I know the outcome."

"You're a wild woman," he gently teased.

She chuckled. "Well, I love you, and I'm willing to do irrational things to prove it."

Their lips met softly and the knot-lump dissolved into a radiant light of hope. _We'll be okay. We're going to get through this_.

"Irrational, mmm..."

More kisses as the fire within him raged. He tensed his abdomen on purpose, knowing that any second –

"Don't you dare," she murmured.

"What?"

"Don't you dare," she repeated.

"I would never – "

She cut him off with scientific babble about sensing his impending flatulence, but Booth no longer cared to talk. He gripped her ass tightly, hoisting her into the air. Reflexively, she wrapped her legs around his waist, a practiced movement between them. Synchronicity. He made his way upstairs, burying his face in the crook of her neck and inhaling her scent. He needed to be inside her, to worship every inch of her pale perfection. She was the sea and he desperately needed to drown.

For the first time since her return, the sex was a celebration, not the solution.

* * *

Tangled together, the cool silk sheet caressing them, he pulled her against his chest. His heart careened against his ribs as her lips grazed his flesh.

"Can I make a confession?"

"I'm not a man of the church, but I'll listen," she replied lightly.

With a deep breath, he whispered, "I've been so terrified that you'll leave me. I thought it today, when we went to check out that chute – "

"Booth, no," she insisted, looking into his eyes. "I couldn't... I never once... You believe me, don't you?"

"I do. But fear isn't rational, Bones. You know that."

"I'm afraid, too," she admitted reluctantly. "I started to think that maybe I'd forgotten how to be 'us', that I wasn't strong anymore. I don't want to be impervious to you."

"I'm pretty sure I penetrated you just fine," he teased, kissing her nose.

"Booth! I'm serious!"

"I know, Temperance. But you're still every bit the woman I love, I promise."

"I don't mean to hurt you when I mention our time away. We've always shared everything. I thought that perhaps if I told you as much as possible, that maybe I could somehow... alter the past. I could delude myself into your being present, no matter how foolish an idea it seemed. We've lost so much time in the past..."

Booth caressed her cheek, nodding. "I understand, baby. Those months were hell for both of us."

"Sleeping alone was difficult. I found myself thinking of you picking me up in the morning for a case, pretending we had our apartments still and for unknown reasons, we had to sleep apart." She sighed. "Or I'd think of that case where Hacker sent you to Florida without me."

"I did all the same things," Booth replied with amazement. "Sleeping in Christine's room, sleeping on the couch, pretending it was my old place... Maybe we were together in our hearts, Bones."

With a soft smile, she burrowed her face against his chest. "I concede that may be true. But I prefer being together like this."

"Me, too," Booth murmured.

"I suppose some would find our relationship to be as illogical as the Carmichaels'," she mused.

Booth shook his head. "Nah, we're nothing like them. Ours is a loving madness. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

_"Our love is madness."_

* * *

_**This was one of those chapters that wasn't in the original outline, but stumbled into my brain one day and suggested itself. I really wanted to pick apart where the hell Booth's anger was coming from, but also, how he went from explosive, jabbing anger to quietly drinking yet anything but calm or okay.  
**_

_**I'd love to know what you think! Leave me a review please, fuel my writing madness... and while you're at it, pick a season: one or four?**_


	13. Caves

**_AN: Season four won... and while this wasn't the song I was thinking of when i extended the option, I love what's happened. This song wasn't even in the outline, wasn't on my radar, until a chance iTunes shuffle.  
_**

**_This chapter is complex and layered, even moreso than Madness. For three squares, this will provide a hint of something she once wished we could see (M., we'll see more of what you crave in depth in a later chapter, I promise); for razztastic, one of her faves makes a brief cameo. Covalent Bond, my lovely friend: do tell me if the end result is anything like you imagined._**

* * *

**Speaking of Covalent Bond, I'm about to quote a review from Madness that I think sums up the story and this chapter in particular: "If anyone else is reading this review and wondering what I meant about learning my lesson, here is a brief explanation of what I meant. When reading these, if you don't know the song Casket is referencing, go listen to it first. Even if you think you know it (I thought I did), listen to it first, then come back and read.**

**Trust her, she always chooses the most incredible songs for these one-shots. Each one is amazing."**

* * *

**_More than any other chapter, listen to this song first before reading. Not only do the lyrics resonate, but the instrumental work mirrors the rises and falls of action/emotion. To help everyone out, I've created a playlist for the story, which you can find at Grooveshark (my username: opentilmidnight)  
_**

**_Tag To: The Critic In The Cabernet; The End In The Beginning; also references The Parts In The Sum Of The Whole; The Hero In The Hold; Aliens In A Spaceship.  
_**

**********_Disclaimer: I continue to not own Bones, nor do I own the gorgeous and confessional lyrics of "Caves" by Jack's Mannequin. Dialogue borrowed from episodes noted above is used for context; no infringement intended.  
_**

* * *

**Caves (Jack's Mannequin)**

_**2013**_

"Brennan."

"_Hey Bones, it's me._"

She pushed back from her computer and smiled at the sound of her mate's voice. "I've missed you today. Did you want to meet for a late lunch? I admit that I've been lost in this report for the Royal Ontario Museum and forgotten to eat."

"_Babe, you gotta eat. You know that. Unfortunately, it'll have to be without me. There's been a break on a cold case I was working on several years back with Charlie and we have to pull the evidence and prepare the files for the new lead agent._"

Brennan frowned. "This is the 'I'm going to be late for dinner' call, isn't it?"

"_Yeah, it is. I'm going to do my damn best to make it home before Christine's bedtime. Max will give you two a lift home tonight_."

"I'll try and keep her awake for you," she assured him.

"_I love you._"

"I love you too, Booth."

Hanging up the phone, her eyes drifted immediately to the photo on her desk, the one of their family. She traced each face lovingly: Parker's proud smile, directed at a laughing Christine; her warm, relaxed look tilted to meet Booth's grin. Most days, she was content to work hard, knowing she would see Booth later in the day. On others, for reasons she had yet to determine, she longed for every minute to be one spent at his side.

Today was one such day, which meant it was time to find out what he'd chosen as track four.

Reaching into her desk drawer, she pulled the CD case from beneath an innocent-looking stack of papers and slid it into the computer's open tray. It had been only a few weeks since Booth had surprised her with her "mix tape", but she was already certain it would be her favourite material gift he'd ever bestow upon her. This was truthful, even if she had yet to hear most of it.

It had dawned on her, as the first song ("Hot Blooded" – _their_ song) had finished and shifted into a song by Angela's father from the not-wedding they'd attended, that each track was carefully chosen for her. Each was a message from Booth to her, a memory treasured. Although she knew each song would be one chosen out of love for her, she also knew that her reaction could be powerful enough to unsettle her. Her solution had been to suggest he not play the rest that night, but instead allow her to listen to it slowly, drawn out over time.

"_When I miss your presence, I can be reminded of your love by playing a new song_," she'd explained.

In a rare instance, Booth hadn't fought her on this choice. He _had_, however, insisted on each song being a surprise. A CD had been burned, with no tracklisting provided. He'd also made her promise to listen very carefully, and allow him to explain each track afterwards.

Last week, after a long night at the lab, she'd discovered what came after: Poco. She'd shed a few tears while driving, remembering his warmth and support on that difficult night, arriving home and throwing herself into Booth's waiting arms. And now, as she skipped ahead, she wondered what memories awaited her.

The opening notes left her gasping for air and reaching out for the phone. Punching in Angela's extension frantically, she felt herself begin to shake.

"_Bren, you could just walk over_."

"He remembers. I don't know how he does, but he remembers."

"_Remembers what? And who?_"

"Booth. The coma. He heard it... Ange, he heard the song."

* * *

_**2009**_

Her fingers flew across the keys, oblivious to the weariness holding court in each and every inch of muscle and sinew. The screen's flicker rate was working in concert with the steady stream of caffeine to force her eyes to remain open, although alert was hardly the word she'd use for her state of consciousness at this point.

Thirty-five hours.

Thirty-five hours since, for one horrifying minute, Booth's respiration drew to a sudden halt as they wheeled him into recovery. Thirty-five hours since she'd been pushed aside by nurses and doctors baffled by the sudden drop-off in vital signs after what was, only moments prior, being heralded as a complete success. Although biopsy would confirm their prognosis, both doctors had concurred that his tumor was benign in nature by the architecture of the tissue removed. Thirty-four hours, twenty minutes since the doctors had explained that Booth had fallen victim to a somewhat rare but serious adverse reaction to the anesthetics utilized and was now in a coma.

Thirty-five hours of worry, tightening its grip around her throat until it was exerting to simply draw a deep breath.

Brennan sat the laptop computer aside, rubbing at her eyes. She needed to take a break from her task. Not only were the sentences fast becoming garbled and loaded with typographical errors, but her voice was hoarse from reading aloud as she worked. What should be an effortless multitasking exercise for someone of her intelligence was becoming as taxing as her dissertation at Northwestern, under the tutelage of an unfortunately sexist and surprisingly incompetent supervisor. She was also vaguely aware that her clothes had begun to emit a faint odor of perspiration, a testament to her adrenal glands working unusually hard.

"Hey honey, how is he?"

Brennan glanced up slowly, blinking hard to clear her vision. "Dad? I thought you were in North Carolina."

"Angela called me and I came," Max replied. "Is he any better?"

"The doctors assure me that he isn't any worse, although I'm mulling a phone call to a colleague in Glasgow for a third opinion," she replied softly. Her eyes drifted to the unnaturally still body of her partner. "He should be awake by now. Hodgins says – "

"People don't always behave like statistics predict, Tempe. It's why Psychology is bullshit." He leaned on the armrest of her chair, his hand smoothing her tangled hair. "You haven't left at all, have you?"

"I promised I'd be right here with him. I won't break my word to Booth."

"You need to eat, Tempe."

"I had an apple."

Max groaned. "That's not a meal. It's barely a snack! You know, for someone with such a big brain, you forget to think a lot."

"Dad," she cautioned angrily.

"Alright, alright. It's my job to worry. What can I do to help?"

Brennan thought for a moment, studying the room. She had plenty of access to water and coffee, and apples were perfectly fine in her mind as sustenance. Angela had brought her laptop from the car. Glancing down at her rumpled jacket, she nodded.

"Would you mind going to my place and bringing back some clothing and my toiletry bag from beneath the bathroom sink?" she asked softly.

Her father smiled. "Sure, honey, although you know, you could go yourself and freshen up. I'd stay here with him for you."

"No, I have to remain here. Please understand."

He extended his open palm, into which she placed her keys. "Alright, but I'm bringing back real food for you. You need to keep your strength up. For Booth."

_For Booth_. Yes. She could do it for Booth. With a squeeze to her shoulder, he was gone and the partners were alone once more. Her eyes fixed upon his, willing the lids to flutter open and reveal the warm chocolate irises that steadied her when the world seemed to turn violently upon its axis.

_Wake up. Please, Booth. Please..._

"Sweetie?"

Brennan blinked and Angela was now there, standing beside her in equally rumpled clothing. Of their team, only she and Angela had remained for the entire stretch of time, the others fading in and out of the scenery. Sisterly devotion, as Brennan understood Angela's explanation. Angela clutched a styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand, her purse in the other.

"Hi, Ange. He hasn't woken up yet."

"And how are you?"

"I'm healthy, Angela, but Booth's condition is what matters right now."

Angela sighed. "Sweetie, it's okay to be upset. You're worried. We all are. And _your _emotions are most definitely my concern."

Brennan watched her friend drag a second chair towards her with a yawn. "They told me it was family only, that only our documents allowed me to be here. How did you get in?"

"Same way your father did: I sweet-talked a nurse and refused to take no for an answer," Angela replied with a wink.

After the previous year, when Booth had been shot and she'd discovered that their emergency contact forms were limited in power, they'd had Caroline Julian draw up a series of documents that ensured they would never be denied access to each other in a medical emergency in the future. Brennan knew it was a gesture of apology from Booth for the two weeks she'd endured, believing him dead, and she had expressed her appreciation of that gesture with a premium bottle of scotch and a promise to never bring the matter up again.

She only wished that they hadn't needed the power of the jargon-loaded documents so quickly.

"Bren, why don't you grab a nap? I can tell you haven't slept a wink."

She shook her head. "I need to monitor Booth's care. He counts on me to ensure his physicians are prevented from making errors."

"Yeah, and Booth would be furious if he knew you weren't looking after yourself," Angela countered. "Look, I'm here. I can stay awake and if anything happens, I'll wake you back up. Besides, I had an idea to help Booth."

"Idea?"

Angela's offer sounded tempting. Her body needed rest and she understood that it was only a matter of time before it ignored her will and shut her down for sleep. At least Angela would be here, should Booth... worsen.

Her friend was standing beside Booth now, a pair of ear buds in her hand. She carefully nudged each one into its corresponding ear and connected it to her iPod as she explained, "Booth is a fighter, but right now, he's pretty tired. I've read plenty of studies that suggest comatose people can hear us, so I thought, 'Why not give him the soundtrack of survival?'"

"A film score?" Brennan asked, confused.

"No sweetie, it's a saying. Anyway, this album I bought recently was written partially as a response to the singer's battle back from nearly dying of leukemia. It's a really positive, uplifting album in so many ways, so I thought it would be good for Booth to hear. Better than the hospital sounds, right?"

"Booth hates hospitals," Brennan mumbled.

With a few taps, Angela smiled and tucked the iPod in beside Booth's left arm. "There we go: art therapy from Angela Montenegro."

It was so sudden: one moment, she was observing her friend; the next, she'd begun weeping.

"Sweetie!" Angela was a blur, moving to embrace her tightly. "He's going to be okay."

"I should have seen this coming sooner," Brennan sobbed. "I knew about the other visual hallucinations and I should have insisted upon CAT scans sooner. I should have known... I..."

"Bren, you've always said that there's a rational explanation for everything to be found, right? Well, Booth was psychologically tortured on a naval vessel. The injuries and trauma made perfect sense for explaining the dead soldier he saw. Ditto the ice incident. No one would have jumped to a brain tumor. No one." Angela's lips grazed her forehead. "This is no one's fault."

"But what if the stress of my seeking Booth's progeny aggravated the cerebellar pilocytic astrocytoma?"

Angela pulled back, meeting her eyes dead-on. "What if your confronting him created stress because the man is in love with you?"

"Ange, don't be absurd – "

"Bren, don't be deliberately obtuse."

"We're not having this discussion. Booth needs me. Booth... He..."

It was increasingly difficult to process stimuli in a timely fashion, and language seemed to be failing her. Her brain was now making demands, seeking restorative attention.

"Sleep, Bren. I'll stand guard."

"Why... wouldn't you... sit? I..."

When Max Keenan arrived forty-five minutes later, Angela shushed him with a finger to her lips and a soft smile of reassurance. Slumped in a chair, Temperance Brennan was out cold, snoring softly.

* * *

_**Thirty-five hours ago**_

Something was wrong.

Booth couldn't explain it, nor could he pretend to know what he was fighting or why, but something was wrong. Something was pursuing him and its hot breath upon his neck sent him running down an endless corridor of darkness, hands stretched out to skim along the walls to keep his course steady.

It was difficult to recall his full name, let alone memories. Fantasy, reality – it was all absorbed into the shadows of this foreboding world. Was he even awake? Was this a dream? Nightmare? Did it matter? He'd always heard that dying in a dream meant death in the waking world and it was that thought, no matter how irrational, that kept him running blindly into this artificial night.

"Booth! Booth!"

"Bones?"

He was blind, but his ears remained true. Her melodic voice called out, shattering the silence, and he ran towards her. The _something_ growled, displeased by her interference. It was hungry, a predator poised for a kill.

_Kill..._

"Booth, come on!"

Distantly ahead, he saw a hint of luminescence, and suddenly, Booth knew the monster breathing down his neck. _Death_.

"I'm coming, Bones!" he screamed.

The light drew nearer, but so did his foe. His chest seized, the sensation of a knife wedging between his ribs sending him to the ground. In the distance, he swore he heard her begin to weep. No, no he had to get back up. He had to reach her. He couldn't let her down, not now... Not again.

Staggering gait, heaving chest, he slumped against the wall unseen and shuffled forward. Pressed against it now like a lover, he could make out the cool stone of the surface. This was no building; it was a tunnel. A light at the end of a tunnel. Could this be any more of a catechism cliché?

The _something_ howled in pain as a hand took his, soft and warm. He knew that hand anywhere and nearly wept in relief. _Bones_. The invisible knife withdrew from his chest and he ran with the hand, ran into the warmth of her sun, unafraid to burst into flames.

* * *

_**Thirty-four hours, fifteen minutes ago**_

"_I'm caught  
Somewhere in between  
__Alive  
And living a dream  
No peace  
Just clicking machines  
The quiet of Compazine  
The walls caved in on me._

_And she sings  
My bird dressed in white  
And she stings  
My arm in the night  
I lay still  
Still I'm ready to fight  
Have my lungs  
But you can't take my sight  
The walls caved in tonight..._"

He was in a room. At least, Booth believed it was a room.

He could see no ceiling, although the lack of sky and fresh air suggested that one existed. The walls, too, suggested themselves by expectation, revealed by a palm slapping the shimmering white concrete. She wasn't here. He sensed she ought to be. Time was... gone. There was blackness, ravenous, and then this whiteness, but where was the grey? Vaguely, he could recall escape, but already, the memories were eroding.

The faint _click_ of some sort of metronome beyond the walls was driving him insane.

There was something he needed to remember. He had somewhere to go, somewhere he needed to be. But where? Where was he?

A sharp pain in his left hip drove him to his hands and knees and he fell, fell into a ball and recoiled from the unseen voices.

"_This is to prevent any concerns with circulation later after prolonged inactivity." _

"_Of course."_

_A whistling and a humming. A familiar church hymn. _

"Fuck," he muttered, gritting his teeth.

Circulation... _Hospital_. He was in a hospital. And Bones... _Oh God, Bones!_ If he was here, in this white place, was he... He couldn't be in heaven, could he? After all of the lives he'd taken, there was no way he'd ever...

Had he left her again – for real, this time?

* * *

"_And out here  
I watch the sun circle the earth  
The marrows collide in rebirth  
In God's glory praise  
The spirit calls out from the caves.  
The walls fell and there I lay  
Saved..."_

_**Thirty-eight hours, eleven minutes ago**_

"The surgery should take about two hours."

"I was getting used to hallucinating. I get lonely."

They both chuckled briefly, although each knew that the situation was hardly funny. _A brain tumor. _Booth was still in shock, he assumed. He knew he ought to be terrified, but the feelings were muted and muffled, as if hearing beneath water.

"You're gonna be fine, Booth. Dr. Jurzik is one of the best."

And she meant that. Bones was honest. She was also scared. He exhaled loudly, gathering his courage to make a demand of her that he knew would be enormous, particularly if he... didn't come out of this.

"Would you come in there with me, to the operating room?"

"No, I'll see you in Recovery."

He tried to keep his tone light, for her sake. "Oh come on, what are you gonna do, sit in the waiting room and read all those old magazines for hours?"

"I'm not a neurologist, Booth, or a surgeon," she replied.

"Yeah, but you're a genius. That's good enough for me."

She looked pained, yet moved by this. Perhaps a little reassured.

"Plus, you'll know if they're screwing up."

She couldn't deny that, nor did she try to. Ten minutes later, she returned in scrubs, helping to steer his gurney towards the operating room. They were almost there – perhaps two sets of doors away – when he pleaded for a minute alone with her. Stewie's hallucinated words rang in his skull, but beneath them, his heart had a lot to say as well.

"Listen, Bones, if I don't make it – "

"Booth, you're gonna be fine," she interrupted.

"Yeah, but if I'm not... I want you to have my stuff. You know, for our kid."

"Booth – "

"I want you to," he stressed. "You're gonna be a really good mom," he added warmly.

And she would be. God, she would be. He only wished he could be there to witness it, to be a part of it.

"You're gonna be fine, Booth. I'll be right here."

It was more than an assurance, more than a mere statement of fact. It was a vow. He believed in it as they continued into the operating room. He trusted in it as the anesthesiologist plunked the mask on his face and urged him to count backwards by threes. He made it to 67, his eyes locked on her beautiful blues, memorizing the precise shade, just in case...

And then, the darkness claimed him.

* * *

"_The walls are caving in  
As far as I can see  
The walls are caving in  
The doors got locked for sure  
There's no one here but me_

_Beat my body like a rag doll_  
_you stuck the needles in my hip_  
_Said 'we're not gonna lie_  
_Son, you just might die_  
_Get you on that morphine drip, drip' ..."_

_**Thirty-four hours, twenty minutes ago**_

Booth rolled onto his back, squinting up at the ceiling beyond the blinding white of his surroundings. Faintly, if he focused long enough, he could discern the reason for his faltering vision: the ceiling was glass. The sun cascaded through the panes into the room, unfiltered by ozone layer, distance or any sort of normal measures. Shielding his eyes, he forced himself to take several long, cleansing breaths.

Reality: a) he was dead; or b) he was having a very screwed up dream. But which one was it? How could he know? It wasn't like people came back from the dead to explain the afterlife in detail – well, no one Booth considered credible, anyway.

The silence was shattered suddenly by a droning sound. Voices, maybe. The words were incoherent, possibly not even in English. _Oh fuck... _Had he been captured? Was he back overseas? Had all of this... had Bones been a dream? No, he couldn't have possibly invented five _years_ of life...

"I need to get out of here," he mumbled.

He rolled to his side, pressing slowly up to his hands and knees, then his feet. There had to be a way out of this... whatever it was. He'd entered somehow.

"_I promised I'd be right here with him. I won't break my word to Booth_."

"Bones?"

He'd heard her, but couldn't see her. Distinctly, he felt drawn to his right and so he walked off in that direction, hands searching the walls for a crack, a break that suggested some sort of hidden entrance. In this direction, the room seemed to lose some of its sheen, but this didn't frighten him. If this was a place between death and life, it only served to figure that death would be unnaturally bright or loud. Reality was somewhat muted in comparison, but more meaningful with its shades and contrast.

"Bones, where are you?"

"Talking to yourself again? Man, that can't be good, Sarge!"

A chill ran down Booth's spine as he spun around to find the battered and bloodied frame of Corporal Teddy Parker. The soldier saluted him with a wink, leaning against the now vaguely discernible walls.

"Teddy? But they... The tumor..."

"Consider me a memory this time, Sarge. You're choosing to see me this time," Teddy explained.

"Why would I do that?" Booth glanced around, palm slapping against the wall. "I need to get back. I have to get out of here and get back."

"And that's why I'm here, Sarge," Teddy replied, smirking.

A vicious pain shot across Booth's forehead and he cried out, leaning against the wall. A blink and suddenly, he was back in the dank hell he'd nearly called his grave.

"_What, you've never loved somebody and didn't say it to them?"_

_He told himself it wasn't true. It wasn't safe to consider the alternative._

"_See maybe that's why I'm here. To get you to say 'I love you' to somebody," the non-corporeal corporal prodded._

"Oh God," Booth mumbled. "No, I... I mean, I've always felt _something_, but love?"

"Please. Everyone knows you two are in love with each other. Even that shrink guy thinks it. That's what he really enjoys studying about you two," Teddy replied.

"Everything is just so clear to you," Booth snapped.

Teddy shrugged. "It is this time."

"Bones doesn't believe in love. Even if I did..." Booth shook his head.

Teddy sighed deeply. "You know what? You piss me off! How many second chances did I get to tell Claire how I felt about her? Zero. How many second chances have the two of you had? What if this _isn't_ one of them?"

"You think I didn't consider that?" Booth snapped.

_She left to update their friends in the waiting room and Booth knew that this was his only chance to confront the doctors and perhaps hear the absolute truth. Swallowing hard, he sat upright._

"_Alright, Doc. My partner is gone. What are my actual chances?"_

_The doctor hesitated. "Mr. Booth, we have told you that we expect this procedure to be a complete success and – "_

"_Look, I've served overseas. I've been tortured. I've been shot. I don't need things sugarcoated," Booth snapped._

"_There's a ten percent chance this procedure will fail, one way or another," the doctor admitted._

"_Meaning?"_

"_Meaning that should the tumor be inoperable or malignant, or should the surgery encounter complications, it will be fatal, either now or in the short-term future."_

"Then maybe you should stop lying to yourself," Teddy said. "Doesn't she deserve to know she's loved?"

Beside him, the walls began to crack, spider lines marring the pristine paint. It was all falling apart. The instability of lingering in limbo came with risks. Booth was going to have to find a way back quickly, or risk never seeing his loved ones again.

"_The walls are caving in  
As far as I can see  
The walls are caving in  
The doors got locked for sure  
There's no one here but me_

_I fought a war to walk a gang plank_  
_Into a life I left behind_  
_Windows leading to the past_  
_Think it's time I broke some glass_  
_Get this history off my mind..."_

"Look Teddy, no offense, but your presence is freaking me the fuck out."

The young man shrugged. "Like I said, Sarge: _you_ conjured _me_ up from memory. But tell her. Don't end up like me."

Within the blink of the eyes, Teddy was gone, but the walls remained dingy, which Booth was grateful for. Dead ahead a good twenty feet, he could see a door. Escape.

Force of habit, panic – whatever the cause, the effect was Booth yanking on the gleaming knob and pounding on the door, screaming for help. Nobody home? Oh, that was it: Booth's mental lights were on, but too many people were at home. He'd gone under the knife and now, he was Alice In Clusterfuck, stuck down a goddamn rabbit hole with no key, no potions, no miracles to speak of.

"Bones," he whispered, slumping to the ground with his back pressed against the door.

Love, lust, friendship – he could decipher his emotions later. The one thing he knew to be sincere was his desire to live, to see her and Parker again. In the distance, the walls began to fold inward, crumbling into rubble.

_I'm running out of time_.

This was a test: he saw it now. How badly did he want to live? It was time to prove himself worthy of another chance. Teddy was right: second chances were incredibly lucky. He and Bones were on their, what, fourth chance? God might be merciful and loving, but he likely didn't suffer fools gladly, particularly when one was an atheist who'd happily denounce the Man Upstairs in a house of worship.

"_Yeah, what if we were married forever?  
Like the past never happened  
And time did not exist for us at all?  
I think we'd still be traveling together  
Through all kinds of weather  
Everything's a piece of everyone..."_

Scrambling to his feet, Booth examined the door carefully, but it was shut tightly. Without a battering ram, it was a hopeless venture. Even a few swift kicks weren't doing the trick. _Think, Booth!_ _You're in a box. Get out of it_. Twenty feet away, a shattering sound heralded the collapse of the glass ceiling. Tiny shards fell to the floor, as if the sun were weeping at the years he'd wasted drawing lines and denying that she gave him faith in himself as a good man.

Only they didn't hit the floor; instead, they hit an increasingly large pile of rubble...

"Up and out," he murmured.

It was a difficult climb, the terrain unforgiving, but he managed to scramble up the debris with minimal cuts to his palms. Finding a gap in the glass ceiling tiles nearly large enough for his frame, Booth ducked his head and punched his fist through the glass, wincing as fragments pelted his scalp and shoulders. Sharp edges tore into his biceps like teeth as he pulled himself towards the sun.

_Ignore the blood. It's not real_.

_Just don't die in this dream_, his mind cruelly taunted him.

On the subject of dreams... once outside, Booth found himself in a familiar nightmare. Coal country. Endless dust and dirt and car tires careening. Sirens blaring. He pulled at his neck, somehow not surprised that he now wore a suit and tie as he scanned the area of excavated earth.

So many nights, he'd dreamed of failing her. Nights of waking up screaming her name, knowing she'd run out of air because he'd failed to protect her, failed to find her in time. After his own brush with the Taffet bitch, the nightmares grew ever more frequent and exquisitely detailed. Why was he here now? What was his mind trying to tell him?

His eyes searched the ground far below, studying familiar swirls of tire tracks and debris. Within him, echoes of the emotions consuming him kicked to the surface and inhaled sharply. The pain was palpable, the fear unforgiving. They'd run out of time a solid forty minutes prior to their arrival, by the lab clock. Everything logical and rational said to give up, to accept defeat, but Booth was a man of action, of passion.

She would never give up on him; he could never give up on her.

He remembered Camille's hand upon his, remembered shoving it away. Remembered blowing her off after they'd managed to pull Hodgins and Bones from the ground and spending the weekend with his partner. Church, walking The Mall, renting movies and eating Thai... He'd ignored every call, every text, save for Parker's Sunday night routine chat. Hell, he'd slept at her apartment, insisting she not be alone with the Gravedigger out there and likely pissed off.

He understood now: he was always hers. And yeah, maybe he and Camille knew it was more 'friends with benefits' than the promise of a real relationship, but he'd been a jackass to imagine he could be satisfied with anyone else. Hell, after Camille, he'd simply stopped trying.

"_Do you believe in fate?" _

_"Absolutely not. Ludicrous."_

But he did believe. He believed in Temperance Brennan. He believed he'd spent his life looking for her. Two halves, torn asunder, now seeking to become whole once more. These endless second chances kept coming because they had to get it right. It was destiny: nothing they said or did could alter the future intended for them.

A single pop in the distance. His signal. Down he rushed, slip-sliding along the dirt until he was racing along the ground, eyes fixated on the spot where the dust spiraled into the air with a soft _poof_. He hit the ground and began to dig, sensing that he would find his way back to her in the gritty sands. Frantic pawing struck at metal, but it was not a car, he quickly determined. It was a hatch of sorts, windowless. Set beneath the handle was a keyhole.

"_As far as I can see  
Walls are caving in  
Doors got locked for sure  
But I see these doors have keys..."_

"Key... key..."

Teddy's constant admonishments to learn lock-picking aggravated him in retrospect as he continued to toss handfuls of dirt aside, knocking against the metal in search of weakness. For all of the accuracy in his current attire, his service weapon was conspicuously absent. _Figures_, he thought bitterly.

_Wait. To hell with this_!

Rising to his feet, Booth kicked the hatch. Stomp after furious stomp rained down upon the metal until a tell-tale rattling sent his hand deep into nearby dirt, where a tiny key had awaited him all along.

"I'm coming, Bones," he whispered, turning the silver key in the lock.

He immediately regretted his position when the door fell inwards, sending him to the ground below with brutality. Booth winced as his elbow collided with wooden floor, while his legs battered against a familiar dresser set.

He was home, only... not.

It was his apartment, structurally. Certain items of furniture, little figurines and random items, were familiar. The presence of shoes in his closet that were distinctly female threw him for a loop and he stumbled backwards, shaking his head to clear it.

Had _this_ all been a dream? The tumor? The operation? What was real?

_Maybe if I lie down in bed, I'll wake up in reality... Whatever that is now_.

It wasn't a bad idea. His brain had been scrambled somehow. The only way to sort out the chaos in his skull was to re-establish the divide between the waking world and his delirious mind. Rejecting the nonsense here by going to bed seemed a reasonable strategy. Truth be told, he was also exhausted beyond words.

From the ethers, he could hear a woman whisper: "_Bren, why don't you grab a nap? I can tell you haven't slept a wink._"

A nap sounded wonderful. Stripping off his filthy suit, Booth slid beneath the covers and buried his face in the cool pillowcase. Beside him, the clock blinked. _4:46 a.m._

"_There's no one here but me..."_

Mere moments later, he heard a key turn in the front door, followed by delicate footsteps edging closer to the bedroom. He recognized the sound and smiled to himself in the dark as a shadowed figure stripped, highlighted by a trickle of moonlight. Soft curls grazed his shoulder, her body pressed against his.

"Do you love me?"

No more second chances. It was time to be honest with her. With himself.

"Yeah. You want me to prove it to you?"

"Mmm, if you're not too sleepy," she demurred.

Inside him, a dam broke, unleashing the force of a love denied for years in every kiss, every touch, as their bodies joined. _I love you_, he told her with every thrust. _I need you_, he confessed in every caress.

As he climaxed, he heard her silent reply in the arch of her back and her own surrender to pleasure: _I love you, too_.

* * *

_**Whew!  
**_

_**For the record, Jack's Mannequin is the band behind the song "The Mixed Tape", wherein the fic gets its title. It was originally in the outline but eventually scrapped for other choices. It's worth a listen as well, as it speaks to Booth's intentions with the mix he's made.**_

_**Andrew McMahon's story of his battle with leukemia is incredibly moving, and captured most pointedly in the song "Caves". There is a documentary film of the story, including how his illness reunited him with his love, whom he married once in remission. It's called Dear Jack and I believe is available on iTunes only now. **_

_**Fun fact: Tommy Lee (yes, he of Mötley Crüe) narrates the documentary and did drums for the first Jack's Mannequin album... including the song "The Mixed Tape". **_

_**Next week: season one beckons. There's a reason that season's been pretty absent... and that's because it's always been a planned multi-episode chapter. :D **_**_(Very few of them are intended, but I go where the Muse takes me)  
_**

**_Please leave a review, let me know what you thought of this weird little coma adventure... And remember, we now have a playlist! Head to Grooveshark, username opentilmidnight (I also have others there you may enjoy). Also, FF, give up on censoring links. Seriously.  
_**


	14. Two Steps Behind

_**AN: Season one... I've always wondered at the strange awkward undercurrent between the season one finale and season two premiere. Perhaps this might shed some light on things...**_

_**Expect typos; I'm running on less than empty, these days. Oops!**_

_**Tag To: The Woman In Limbo; The Man In the Morgue; Two Bodies In The Lab; The Woman In The Garden.**_

* * *

**Two Steps Behind (Def Leppard)**

"_Walk away if you want to  
It's okay, if you need to  
You can run, but you can never hide  
From the shadow that's creeping up beside you..."_

He's been on edge for days, waiting for this moment to come. It's not something he's ever wanted to see, nothing he's ever wished for her, but if there's one thing Booth has come to understand, it's that each and every person has a breaking point, even Temperance Brennan.

He stands beside her now, watching this piece of shit tear apart her memories of her mother and father, knowing that he's lying through his goddamn teeth but unable to interrupt. This is her search for the truth. He's simply here, as always, two steps behind and to her right, waiting for her to turn around. His hand itches to strike out, but it would be out of line. Unless she asks.

But she won't ask. Experience has taught him that.

* * *

"_There's a magic running through your soul  
But you can't have it all..."_

**Then:**

He's spent every night at her place since the nightmare began, carting Chinese food to her door at midnight as an excuse to see her for himself, to know she's hanging on. He's been popping antacids non-stop, but he doesn't care. At least she's eating, albeit begrudgingly.

"If you keep bringing Chinese food in the middle of the night, we're both going to get fat."

It's meant to be a protest, but it lacks the power her voice usually wields. She's exhausted and emotionally drained, her cheeks pale and her eyes ringed in faint bruises.

"Uh-huh..." He weighs his words carefully before speaking. "I know what you've been thinking."

"I doubt it."

Ever contrary. That's his Bones.

"You've been thinking that your family is made up of liars and criminals, and that makes you feel lonely."

His heart aches when he catches sight of the look on her face, the heavy weight of sorrow upon her shoulders. She's pissed at him for speaking it aloud, because he's not wrong. He's seen through her and Lord knows she hates that!

"There's a story here we don't know yet," he continues.

"Like what?"

"Bones, 'don't know' means it's a mystery."

She changes directions on him. "What were your parents like?"

"Oh, my parents, uh..." _My dad was an abusive piece of shit who beat his children and drank himself stupid. My mother left a suicide note and her car was found abandoned on a bridge._ Not exactly Brady Bunch material. "My dad, he, uh, he drove thuds and phantoms in Vietnam. Those are fighter jets." She nods in understanding and he continues with his sanitized childhood. "After that, he was a barber in Philadelphia. My mom, she wrote, uh, jingles for a local advertising agency."

He chuckles briefly, recalling some of her worse efforts.

"So they didn't go out at night after you were asleep and rob banks," his partner snaps.

"Listen, Bones, you know, parents, they have secret lives. If they didn't, they wouldn't be parents."

She's closed up tight again, locked away behind her ten-mile-high walls. And him? Well, he's completely failed in his mission to ease her sorrow. _Time to go, Booth_.

"It is a little late for Chinese, isn't it? Thanks for the meal. See you tomorrow."

She escorts him to the door mutely, managing only a faint squeak of surprise when he goes for broke and gives her a quick hug. By the time he turns back at the elevators, she's shut and locked her door. He's always locked out with her.

Maybe he's earned that distance, he considers the following morning.

* * *

_**Then:**_

The words still haunt him, months later.

"Keep her close."

Kenton agrees, and Booth unwittingly throws her into the lion's den, bleeding and defenseless. If Hodgins... Fuck, if the damn conspiracy nut hadn't walked in, scarfing down his pudding while spewing theories of an inside job, he may have never connected the dots. Without Hodgins, he wouldn't have been on the road in minutes, hunting down the secret predator and his gift-wrapped prey.

"Go with me on this," he remembers Hodgins blabbing. "Mob guys know you're closing in and want to throw you off by making it look like the psycho. I mean, these guys have been involved in conspiracies a lot more compliacted than this. They set up Lee Harvey Oswald, worked with the CIA to kill Castro. Forget about what they did to Marilyn Monroe."

It's a lot of convoluted conjecture, but one line rings true: someone has taken great care to make this look like Hollings. Someone with perfect understanding of the bastard.

"Someone planted that evidence so that we'd find it, someone who knew what we were up."

"Someone in the lab works for the mob. I can see it," Hodgins agrees. "There's not much difference between a corrupt corporate government and organized crime."

Organized crime. Suddenly, the pieces fall into place, and the picture formed makes Booth nauseous.

"You're right."

"Excuse me?"

"The only way that this could unfold..." He tears at the more restrictive bandages, his experience as a soldier guiding his choices. "...is if someone on the inside was orchestrating things."

_Kenton. Oh God, I handed her right to him, and now... _

"People never tell me I'm right. They only say I'm crazy. Love you, man," Hodgins gushes, pausing to take in the scene. "What the hell are you doing?"

_Saving my partner before my mistakes cost her more than a date with a Cyberdick_.

"You're driving," he tells the bug guy.

Credit where it's due, the tiny car moves fast and Hodgins drives like a maniac, which is a good thing since they're chasing one down. They're eventually tipped off to an abandoned warehouse where the local addicts are reporting that a man and a woman entered, looking very out of place and clearly unhappy. Upon his arrival, Booth almost suckerpunches a colleague who dares to insist he remain outside.

"There's no 'we'. You can barely stand," he says, clearly upset.

"I'm going with you," Booth insists.

"Booth – "

"I said I'm going with you. Now give me my gun."

This is a rescue mission that calls for stealth and accuracy. Even with only one good arm, there's no one more qualified to save his partner. More importantly, he _owes it to her_. He made a promise to her and he'll keep it or die trying, shielding her body if need be.

The agent reluctantly hands him a weapon. "Bring me that vest for Booth." _Ugh_. "Wear this."

"Yeah."

_Fuck that._ After a half-assed attempt at pulling the thing on, he shoves it towards Hodgins.

"Yeah, you know what? You can come too. Put that on, you stay back."

"I can do that," Hodgins assures him.

His left hand clutches his ribs as they make their way through the maze of broken down walls and junkie nests. All of this movement has jostled the steady stream of narcotics around in his gut and apparently, vanilla pudding and morphine are not a match made in gastronomic heaven. The sight of her keychain does nothing to soothe his stomach and Booth swallows back the bile that churns upward.

_Be okay, Bones. Hang on. Fight him._

He's the first to catch sight of them, of her, and only the pain keeps him from rushing forward and beating Kenton to a bloody pulp. Instead, he settles for a carefully squeezed off shot that disarms the piece of shit and then, only then, does he allow the cavalry to take charge. Booth has somewhere more important to be.

She's frantic, her pupils dilated in terror even as he bends down to free her. It's pathetic how weak his body is, how it's betraying him, and it takes an inventive slip of his head and the exertion of his shoulders to pull her up and off of the hook. She collapses into him, her body shuddering violently.

"It's okay, I'm right here, it's all over. Okay. Shh, I'm right here. Alright, it's all over..."

Several long moments pass, her arms wrapped around his neck. For all of her strength, she is so very fragile, malleable – but only for a minute. Booth can feel her muscles growing taut as she pulls back to study his face.

"How did you get out of the hospital?"

"Hodgins gave me a ride," he explains, biting back a yowl of pain. "Maybe you can give me a ride back, though? Can you?"

She laughs quietly, hugs him tight and inside, he melts. Maybe she'll forgive him. Maybe someday, she'll trust in his protection again.

* * *

"_(Whatever you do)  
I'll be two steps behind you  
(Wherever you go)  
and I'll be there to remind you  
that it only takes a minute of your precious time  
to turn around and I'll be two steps behind..."_

_**Then:**_

Always catching up.

It's the life he leads as her partner. She storms ahead, unafraid, unrelenting; he, in turn, jogs along and tries to keep up as she spins him in mental circles with her whirlwind of knowledge and fiery temper. This time, she's decided that "vacation" means "identify bodies in New Orleans" and the nagging feeling he's had since she departed is proven justified when he gets the call from the hospital.

He's her emergency contact, he's told, and were he not on the receiving end of frightening news about her physical and mental state, he would be speechless that she would name him of all people. Instead, he hears the words "amnesia" and "rape kit" and is already snatching his wallet and weapon from the dresser and heading out the door. He maxes out his credit card with the flight, but he can't begin to give a shit.

_Bones. Amnesia. Possibly raped, definitely beaten_. He repeats these facts to himself as he abuses the siren and floors it to Dulles. She's alone in another state. Why did he let her go alone?

She calls him as he reaches the gate. He can hear the trembling of her body as she speaks. Her speech is slower than usual. He fights the urge to cry.

"I wanted to tell you that I'm alright," she says.

"Like hell you are! You can't remember an entire day, Bones. They told me that you were physically assaulted, possibly – "

"Booth, why is it so noisy? Where are you?"

"_Ladies and gentlemen, we are now boarding economy class seats on flight 2895 to New Orleans, with layover in Charlotte. We'll begin with rows..._"

"Booth, you're not flying here!" she shouts at him.

"Bones, they're calling my row," he tells her firmly.

"Booth, I'm fine!"

Her voice cracks and he hears the lie. She's not fine. She's far from goddamn fine, and he'll be damned if he lets her face whatever's happened alone. He needs to act, needs to find the bastard responsible, and hurt him very, very badly.

"Bones, if you didn't want me to come in an emergency, you wouldn't have listed me as your contact. I'll see you in six hours."

He goes to hang up but pauses as she begins shouting through the receiver.

"What? What's wrong?"

She sighs, then quietly says, "If you're going to ignore me, then please travel safely."

"I will."

He spends the entire flight imagining what he'll find on the other side of the journey, his mind running the gamut from "a little bruised" to "beaten within an inch of her life". He tries to nap, wakes up gasping as he dreams of a faceless man striking his partner while he is paralyzed, unable to save her. She calls his name, over and over, pleading.

Even in sleep, he fails her.

* * *

"_Take the time  
to think about it  
Walk the line, you know you just can't fight it  
Take a look around and see what you can find  
Like the fire that's burning up inside me..._

His terror growing, he barges into the hospital – or what's left of it, after Katrina – and starts throwing open doors. A nurse tugs haplessly on his arm, failing to acknowledge that he could bench press her tiny frame.

"Sir, sir! You can't just go barging into rooms! Who are you looking for?"

"Dr. Temperance Brennan," he snaps. "My partner."

"You have to wait outside. The doctors are still examining her – "

The nurse screws up; her glance across the hall is an obvious tell. Booth storms across the hall, throwing open the door.

Behind him, the nurse cries out, "Sir, you can't go in there!"

"Bones, are you okay?"

It's a stupid question. She's not okay. She's bruised and tiny in the hospital gown, almost child-like. He wants to hold her but fears doing irreparable harm to her. _And if she's been raped..._ No, no he won't touch her. Not suddenly. He won't hurt her.

"Booth, I told you not to come," she replies.

"Who's this?" Booth glances over and knows instantly: cop.

"It's... he's FBI. We're sort of partners," Bones explains.

"A guy flies down from D.C., you're more than _sort of_."

Booth resists the urge to chew her ass out, knowing he might need this gossipy detective's help at some point. "Yeah, that's great. Do you remember anything?"

"Uh, a tray falling over..."

"Why can't she remember anything?" he snaps at the apparent doctor bumbling through her care.

"Well, it could be the head injury," he says, which is so obvious, even Booth's son would know it.

She begins rambling off her injuries, as if on cue. "Hairline stress fracture to my right distal radius, concussion, slight fever, torn ear lobe – I lost one of my favourite earrings," she laments.

"You're worried about an earring. You should really be worried about losing a whole day."

She bows her head, looking rebuked. "I know, it's stupid, but these earrings were my mother's."

_Crap_. Now he feels like an ass. He should have known that material possessions like earrings wouldn't matter to her unless they meant something _more_.

"Amnesia caused by any traumatic event, injury or drug can erase memories before the event, not just after," Doctor Do-Nothing rambles on.

"Okay, so we'll just wait for a tox screen," Booth says.

"It's gonna be at least 24 hours."

"24 hours?" _What the hell?_

"Well, most of the labs in the area were destroyed by the hurricane."

He wants to pack everything up, samples included, and take her back to the Jeffersonian. She needs to be home, safe amongst friends.

"We'll find out what happened. You just take care of your, uh, _partner,_" Detective Useless teases.

Booth is unamused.

* * *

"_There's a magic running through your soul  
But you, you can't have it all_

_(Whatever you do)  
I'll be two steps behind you  
(Wherever you go)  
and I'll be there to remind you  
that it only takes a minute of your precious time  
to turn around and I'll be two steps behind..."_

He follows her as she pursues the truth of her lost day. He follows with her lost earring jammed inside his pocket, safe from the flashing anger in the eyes of Detective Harding. He resists the urge to call her out on her shoddy detective work, instead calling Caroline Julian and begging for her help. He's going to owe her several large favours in this lifetime, but his partner is worth it.

Through it all, she remains adamant that she doesn't need to be protected or shielded. It's infuriating, how she refuses to concede any sort of human weakness. She won't rest until she finds the truth, a trait both admirable and annoying.

She turns to him now, having revealed Benoit's complicity, and wearily says, "I'd really like to go home now."

"Yeah, me too." Glancing at the local badges, he continues. "Alright, my advice? Cuff Mr. Wizard here before he puts a spell on you."

"What, no written confession?" Harding asks.

"You want a confession? Threaten to release his daughter's soul. He'll tell you everything."

"Dr. Temperance Brennan... You leave here, you go home, it does not matter. There are powers, _dark powers,_ to which distance makes no difference," Benoit threatens.

"Easy, buddy."

Benoit starts chanting and yeah, maybe Booth doesn't truly believe in voodoo, but he's pretty sure the guy's wishing death on Bones, which means he needs a knuckle sandwich jammed down his throat.

"Hey, hey, hey!"

Benoit exhales as if blowing evil her way. Before Booth's fist can draw back, she pokes him in the eyes very calmly.

"I've noticed very few people are scary once they've been poked in the eye," she muses aloud, almost smirking as Benoit moans in pain.

The detective's laughter fills the room as Bones heads out into the night, her head held high. And Booth, he follows her. Two steps behind.

* * *

_**Now:**_

"Your father is a hard man, Joy."

_Joy_. It's the final proverbial straw and Booth watches in horror as McVicar casually strolls away from the wreckage in his wake and Temperance Brennan finally loses her grip on the armor she donned as a fifteen year-old girl.

"My name is Brennan. I'm Dr. – Dr. Temperance Brennan," she says, struggling to maintain her composure. "I work at the Jeffersonian Institution. I'm a forensic anthropologist. I specialize in identif..."

Her voice trails off as the tears begin to fall, but he waits. He waits for the question so that he might be the answer.

She continues, as if addressing a courtroom in earnest. "... in identifying – in identifying people when nobody knows who they are. My father was science teacher. My mother was a bookkeeper. My brother –" She pauses, her shoulders crumpling. "I have a brother."

It's not a statement of fact; it's a revelation. Her heart slips out from beneath her sleeves and Booth edges forward a step. He hears her plea, a whispered code.

"I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan," she cries.

"I know who you are," he tells her, pulling her towards him. "Hey, I know. It's okay. _I know_."

She turns into him and he feels her draw a ragged breath against his chest. He would give her the very air in his lungs, if only she asked. And for the first time, he realizes that she's not merely accepting his support. Her hands fisting in his shirt, her quiet sobs, the way she murmurs his name – scarcely audible – it's all there.

She is _asking_ him, because she knows he will always hear her call and reply. She understands that he is her _partner_, a word that transcends associate, colleague and, to a degree, friend. His life is inextricably bound to hers now. Theirs is a bond that he can neither articulate nor explain to even himself.

It simply is.

Ten minutes later, she is back behind the safety of her rational walls, her face blank on the drive back to her place. But something has shifted between them, something fundamental.

She asked.

* * *

She wields her weapon of choice, her intellect, with precision and soon, a warrant becomes a murder weapon and McVicar is cornered like the rat he is. He snarls, teeth bared, but the reality is Temperance Brennan, standing over his tiny, lying head, capable of stomping him to death.

"There's no way to prove that that's the exact weapon that killed your mother or anyone else," he protests.

"You'd be surprised at what she can prove," Booth taunts.

His beady rat eyes turn to his partner. "I need to speak to you alone."

"Forget it."

"Booth, it's alright."

"No – "

"It's alright," she insists.

"No."

The daughter in mourning haunts her eyes and this time, Booth isn't sure he can restrain himself from violence. He walks up to McVicar, pressing into his face.

"You got two ways to look at this. One is you score a private chat. The second one is, you attack her and I'll drill you through the forehead."

"How can I possibly attack her?"

"I'll decide what is and isn't an attack, like, say, a _hiccup_," he snarls.

"Booth, come on," she chides him.

She doesn't ask. Why isn't she asking?

He watches the conversation from just beyond earshot, watches him feed her lies. He can read them in her body language. He studies the pain in her eyes, the way she darts tiny glances to him. And suddenly, something clicks.

She doesn't need to turn back and ask for his support. She already knows he's right there, just two steps behind her. It's why she's able to slug a judge, or charge ahead into danger without concern for her own well-being. She's a strong, self-sufficient woman, but she also understands that if things go to hell, she's not alone.

He remembers one of their first cases, cast now in a new light. Remembers her beating up Ortiz. Remembers the way she glanced at him – just once, ever so briefly from the corner of her eye – before landing her first hit. Remembers the way he trailed behind her after the funeral he'd missed – two steps behind her, rushing to keep up.

She's always trusted him so implicitly that she never felt the _need_ to ask.

"You can't live with that, Joy. You can't live not knowing," McVicar shouts.

"I found out what happened to my mother, I will find out what happened to my father, too." And with this vow, she spins and moves towards Booth, her body relaxing just a fraction as their eyes meet. "I'm done."

"You will _never_ know what happened to your father!"

Empty words. They mean nothing to a woman rooted in truth and facts.

* * *

"I'd like to make up for a little lost time," she tells him.

He's proud of her, but more than that, happy for her as she approaches Russ. He makes a lame excuse, something about funnel cake, but he remains nearby, within sight. Just in case she needs to turn around and know she's not alone.

She holds up a marble and Russ accepts it as if it were a diamond gleaming in the carnival lights. Faintly, he hears the calls of children over the din: "Marco," he says. "Polo," she replies. They embrace in tentative solidarity before she leads him back to their car.

Call and answer.

The drive back to her place is relatively quiet, although hardly uncomfortable. Booth is behind the wheel, giving him an excuse to _concentrate_, which translates to wondering why, if she has so much faith in their partnership, he isn't allowed to read her book but smarmy David is. Surely, she doesn't trust him more! She barely sees the guy, what with the hours she works. So what has he done wrong?

He walks them to her door, wary of the tenuous peace between the siblings. His gut tells him that Russ is a good enough guy – a fuck-up at times, but one who loves his sister – but Bones has a temper and a stubborn streak and Booth's got her back, right or wrong.

"Anybody thirsty?"

"Is it too early for a beer?" Russ asks.

"I've gotta go, you know. I'm picking up Parker for the weekend," he explains, pausing as he catches sight of a manuscript on the table. "Yeah, I'll take one," he quickly tells her.

"You have a boy?" Russ asks.

"Yeah." Cautiously, Booth lifts the title page and immediately understands why she's dug her heels in so hard on the book. Centered on the page is a simple, yet powerful dedication: _This book is dedicated to my partner and friend, Special Agent Seeley Booth_.

"The woman I'm seeing, she's got, uh, two daughters," Russ chatters.

"Nice." He means the dedication. "Girls are nice," Booth continues, looking to his partner.

She doles out the beers and it is all he can do not to pull her in for a hug, to thank her for what he technically shouldn't know. Instead, he offers a toast.

"To us."

"Whoever the hell we are," Russ adds.

"To what we're becoming," she says, her voice hoarse with emotion.

Three bottles clink in affirmation. What is affirmed lies in the eye of the beholder.

"_(Whatever you do)  
I'll be two steps behind you..."_

* * *

**_For a bit of a juxtaposition to part of this chapter, The Bites Of The Partnership Pie contains a piece called "You've Begun To Feel Like Home". It's a bit of a conclusion for how we go from Hot Blooded to here to the end of the episode._**

**_So, important announcement stuff..._**

**_1) I have a new story posted and another new one coming very soon. The Ring In The Reflecting Pool is a lovely casefic born of a dare - one that will definitely shake up Booth. Many of you have said hi over there already, and that makes you awesome. If you're not already reading it, come check it out._**

**_2) The other story will post this weekend, most likely... Intrepid profile seekers will figure it out..._**

**_3) With reviews falling and my time and brain scattered between my two jobs, my wedding and three stories, I will be sadly cutting back the frequency of updates for a while. This story will now update biweekly, and on opposing weeks, one or both of the others will update. _**

**_For now, please drop a line and let me know what you thought. If you missed Caves last week, flip backwards. Otherwise, I shall see you soon!_**


	15. Iris

_**AN: I honestly didn't think that there would be an update today, but sometimes, the Muse just walks up and goes Bam! Here's a story. I've has this song planned since almost the beginning for this episode and a loose outline, but the details (specifically, the more middle portion) burst out yesterday.**_

_**Like with last week's song (which I love, but is admittedly tame for Def Leppard), this song seems not-so-Boothy (it was originally another song for this chapter on first outline, but was quickly changed), but like Caves, the reasons are here. **_

_**Tag To: The Daredevil In The Mold**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Bones, alas, nor do I own the Goo Goo Dolls' "Iris". Dialogue is used for context; no infringement intended.**_

* * *

**Iris (Goo Goo Dolls)**

He doesn't know how long he's been at the bar, and he's lost count of the number of shots he's had – "too many" is probably a safe answer, although "not enough" would also suffice – but he guesses it's been at least half an hour. That's how long it would take Bones to drive from her apartment to the bar, give or take ten minutes of traffic, to be standing here beside him.

He can't decide whether he wants her to stay or not. Half of him desperately needs her rationality, her way of seeing through his evasive language to the truth that he will not voice aloud. The other half of him sees another reminder of how unwanted he is, how worthless of a man he is in the eyes of every goddamn woman he's ever loved or even cared for. The latter half is a vocal bastard, one fueled by scotch, which is how he comes to spitting out far more honesty than he'd typically dare reveal.

"I mean, you like evidence. Alright, Bones, well, here's the evidence. The evidence is that there's something wrong here. Now, I – I fell in love with a woman. I had a kid. She doesn't want to marry me. And – the next woman, she's..."

"Me."

"Yeah! And now – I mean, what is it with women who don't want what I'm offering here?"

"Booth..."

He cuts her off, no longer interested in the explanations and apologies of _anyone_. "No. Just, you know what – drink. Drink," he urges, even as he senses he's encroaching dangerously into the rage territory of his father. "I'm just really – I'm just mad. I'm just really mad at all of you. I'm just mad, okay? So you want to know how this is going to work? Okay, this is how this is going to work. Me and you are partners. That's what we do. Me and you, we're partners. And I love that. I think that's _great_. And we're good people that catch bad people, right?"

It just keeps spilling forth, the truth, and she remains silent, allowing him to continue to ram his angry foot down his stupid, proposing throat.

"And – and we argue. We go back and forth. We're partners and sometimes after we solve the case, we come here and celebrate. That's what we do, we celebrate. So as far as I can see, that's what happens next. Are you okay with that?"

He gives her maybe all of two seconds before his angry heart keeps talking.

"Great, 'cause you know, if you are, you stay here and you have a drink with me, alright? Maybe we have a little small talk, a little chit chat. If not, well, you can leave, there's the door. And tomorrow, uh, I'll find you another FBI guy."

Even he can't believe that statement, although his brain's been screaming at him for the past year, asking him why he felt the need to stay with her even after she'd rejected him outright, refused to even _try _to be what everyone told him they already were, minus the sex. She'd kept everything and he'd been forced to live with the torment of her presence, unable to touch, to show her the love that consumed his thoughts. But maybe the booze is right. Maybe he needs to be free of her, free of the entire lab.

**"**Those are my only choices?" she asks quietly.

"Yeah. Those are your only choices."

_Or maybe you just need to believe that someone wants you around. Needs you, even._

"Then I'll have a drink," she says at last, signaling the bartender.

They go six rounds in silence, the clunk of each shot glass meeting the bar the only sound. Other patrons come and go, but Booth doesn't give a damn about them. It's a Wednesday night, so the traffic's the usual suspects, the ones who probably know him and Bones. They can judge all they like. He doesn't give a damn. He truly doesn't.

In the back of his mind, this terrifies him. He's seen what not giving a damn looks like, and it's not a pretty picture. It's Jared being pulled over for a DUI. It's his father reaching for a glass and shattering it against the wall beside his head. It's his father driving drunk to the store, nearly running over the little girl down the street. He starts to feel sick. Worthless, too – even more than he already does. And so the cycle goes: he requests two more shots from the bartender, whose features are hazy at best.

"Those are the last ones," Bones says quietly.

"I'm not done," he snaps, knocking back the first shot.

"I'm fairly certain from the bartender's body language that he's served you well beyond his usual limits out of familiarity with us and your badge, but even he is about to cut you off," she explains calmly. "Let's get a cab and get you home."

"I can't go home," he protests. "It hasn't been long enough. I can't see her."

He finishes the second shot, looking to her expectantly. With a sigh, she flags the bartender and knocks back two shots herself in quick succession.

"Then come to my place. Take the guest room. I have a little scotch and you can drink it. But we're leaving the bar now."

Her voice leaves no room for argument and as pissed as he is at her for her recent admission of love after rejecting him and running halfway around the world to escape him, she does have booze at home. The bartender's face also suggests she's right about him being cut off and considering the ten grand he pitched into the Reflecting Pool, maybe calling it a night is a good idea. He fumbles inside his pocket for his wallet, but the bartender's shaking his head.

"It's taken care of," he says.

"Huh? How?"

She's gone and he rises to his feet, grabbing the bar as his vision spins. Where'd she go? Who took care of what?

"I don't understand," he mumbles.

"And that's why I have to cut you off for the night, Agent Booth. She's outside flagging a cab," the bartender explains.

He staggers to the door, slowly putting together that she's paid the bill for him, and he's even more pissed now, because who asked her? Who asked her rich author ass to bail him out? Not him. He didn't ask.

She moves to enter as he pulls the door open to exit. Her hand reaches out for his shoulder, gripping it firmly. It shouldn't affect him the way it does, but there it is: instant hard-on.

"Come on, Booth; the cab's waiting."

He follows her to the waiting car, his coat draped over his arm in a messy loop. She holds the door open for him and he grumbles, waving her away.

This is a bad idea. The night will not end well for either of them.

They've gone maybe a mile when he turns to her and says, "I'll pay you back when I'm sober."

"No, you won't," she replies.

"You're not paying for my drinking binge."

"Booth, I have more money than you, a greater income level – "

"Yeah, we all know you're rich, Bones!"

"Hannah said the ring looked very expensive," she murmurs. "She said you threw it in the water."

He sighs, thumping his head against the seat behind him. "I don't need your goddamn charity, Bones."

"Then call it your early birthday gift and shut the hell up, Booth," she snaps.

He folds his arms across his chest, staring out the window. Maybe taking his chances with Hannah would have been a better plan. All he's doing is pissing her off, and that's just more evidence of how unappealing he is to every woman in his life. They all get angry with him. They all push him away.

Something is _wrong _with him. But no one will tell him _what_ is so wrong!

He closes his eyes for what seems like a few seconds and they are at her apartment. She pays for the cab and steps outside, offering him no assistance this time. His anger is biting him in the ass because the alcohol he slammed back just before their departure has obliterated his coordination. It's also washing away his rage. In its place, oblivion.

"I need help," he slurs.

She extends her hand into the cab and he allows her to pull him to his feet. "Can you walk?" she asks.

"Probably."

She shuts the cab door and threads her arm through his. "Let's go, Booth."

The doorman greets them with a nod as they pass, likely sensing from the way Booth zigs and zags that it's best not to start a conversation tonight. By the time they've entered the apartment, he's leaning against her wall to find his way to the living room.

"I love your place," he says with a wistful sigh.

She's changed up some of the décor – one of her old vases is missing; there's a new statue of some kind on a pedestal – but the general minimalism and stack of scientific books on the side table is intact. She retreats to the kitchen, opening the fridge. He is suddenly hit with a memory and staggers forward, waving his arms.

"You can't just go opening fridges like that!" he shouts.

"Why not?"

"Because... Bombs, that's why!"

She winces, averting her eyes. "I'm sorry. You haven't said anything in so long... I..."

"S'okay. Where's the scotch?"

"A bottle of water first, then it's all yours," she replies, handing him one of two she's retrieved.

He rolls his eyes and follows her into the living room, where he notices the stereo system. His mind rewinds again to that night five years ago as he stumbles towards it.

"Remember when we listened to music for the first time?" he asks.

"Of course. I remember everything."

He flips the power on, studying the empty cases on top of the speaker. "God, I wanted you that night."

"I don't understand."

She's lying, but he indulges her.

"You were so sexy, dancing and singing," his mouth continues, ignoring all mental warning signals. "I was thinking, 'Maybe I should say something'. But then, BOOM! Whatcha got in here?"

He hits play before she can reply, her mouth opening silently and closing again in defeat. He takes a gulp of water from the bottle, a dribble escaping down his chin. He is so very drunk and it is relief. Mercy, really.

"_And I'd give up forever to touch you  
'Cause I know that you feel me somehow  
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be  
And I don't want to go home right now..."_

"Booth, my neighbours – "

"You keep bragging about your soundproofing, Bones," he counters playfully. "Hey, you like this song?"

She shrugs noncommittally. "Angela made me a mix."

"Everyone gives you a mix. Everyone but me," he mumbles.

"It was a gift. To help... I'm not explaining it. I'm turning it off," she snaps, crossing the room briskly.

He cuts in front of her, shaking his head. "Don't explain. Explaining is words. Thinking. I don't want to think tonight."

"_And all I can taste is this moment  
And all I can breathe is your life  
And sooner or later, it's over  
I just don't want to miss you tonight..."_

She shudders slightly as his hand grazes hers and he wonders whether it's indicative of disgust or desire. Once upon a time, they had a language all their own: touches, smiles and smirks. A subtle glance conveyed so much. But lately... Well, lately, Hannah. One word, a thousand complications.

"No thinking?' she asks softly.

"No. Just... drinking."

"Because that's what partners do," she says.

He nods, licking his lips nervously. "Yeah. Are we still partners?"

She laughs, one single, short blast, before shaking her head. "Like I have a choice," she murmurs.

The rage begins to rise anew. "You have a choice. No one's making you be near me."

"No," she says sadly. "I don't have a choice. Not about this... Not about you."

She turns away as her shoulders slump in a manner he's scarcely ever seen and it is then that it clicks, beneath the murky haze of alcohol, then that he understands what he's done. He's presented her with her very own Hoover, her very own impossible decision. Because he's already rejected her, already crushed the hopeful glint in her eyes.

At what point did turnabout become anything but fair play?

"_And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming  
Or the moment of truth in your lies  
When everything feels like the movies  
Yeah, you'd bleed just to know you're alive..."_

"Bones?"

She won't look at him and this worries him, because as angry as he is, he's angriest with himself. And if he's hurt her on top of fucking everything up with Hannah... Fuck. _Fuck!_

"Bones," he tries again. "Bones, I'm really drunk. Shitfaced drunk. I'm sorry if I've... Look, maybe I should go home."

"No, you can stay. I'm just exhausted."

"I'm just so tired of not being enough," he confesses as he steps closer.

She turns around slowly, her expression pained. "I cannot speak for anyone else, but being 'enough', as you put it, was never an issue. Isn't an issue. But I don't wish to think, as you mentioned."

"Yeah..."

His mouth is dry and not even the rest of the water is able to quench his sudden thirst. He sets the bottle down on the table gingerly. Maybe this is where he should call it a night. It probably is where he should end it. But the stupid asshole in him has other ideas.

"Dance with me?" he asks.

"Booth, no – "

"I was horrible last time. Just... let me dance with you. To thank you for being with me tonight, even though I've given you no reason to stick around as a partner lately."

Her body sways back and forth slowly for several long moments, finally coming to rest against his. His right hand finds the small of her back, his left clasping her right as they begin to sway. Her head rests against his scar, the one where the bullet pierced him as he chose her life over his own. He's noticed how often she somehow finds a way to connect with that scar. He knows she's acutely aware of it. He can only assume it's intentional.

"_And I don't want the world to see me  
'Cause I don't think that they'd understand..."_

"I hate myself when I'm this drunk," he whispers in her ear.

"Why?"

"Because I come too close to being my father."

She glances upwards. "You could never be your father, Booth. Your heart muscle is too large."

"You don't understand – "

"You're _not_ your father, Booth," she insists. The song finishes and she steps back, stifling a yawn. "We should sleep."

Booth nods. He'd come here craving more booze, but he's realizing he's had more than enough. He needs to sleep it off, sleep through the misery and start a new day alone. It's hardly a novel state of being for him. No big deal.

_But you're not alone. She's still here_.

She has every right to shove him back, to cut him off, to find a better FBI agent to work with. And yet, she's here, leading him down the hall to the guest room. She's let him make cruel ultimatums, come onto her, blame her, God knows what else – and why?

She turns down the blankets, fluffing the pillows absently. "I'm calling you out of work tomorrow."

"Bones – "

"We don't have a case. You can do paperwork at home. Now come on, lie down."

He kicks off his shoes and strips to his boxers, his normal inhibitions locked away beneath the growing guilt he feels for his behaviour. Reluctantly, he slides into the bed, drawing the blankets close. A part of him wants her to stay, but he doesn't dare ask. He doesn't _deserve _to ask her. Not after what he's done.

"Goodnight, Booth," she says, heading for the door.

"Bones?"

She turns around, a silhouette in the door frame. "Yes?"

"Thank you... I mean, you didn't have to come. Or stay. Or bring me here... Why? Why am I here? Why haven't you kicked my ass for acting the way I have, like this... bastard?"

After a long silence, she returns to the bedside. Leaning down, she gently kisses his forehead. It's a flutter of a kiss, a ghostly touch. He shivers at the feel of her warm breath against his skin.

"It's okay," she says warmly. "I know who you are."

He is speechless as she walks away, shutting the door behind her with a quiet _click_.

"_When everything's made to be broken  
I just want you to know who I am..."_

* * *

**_I was watching The Bikini In The Soup, studying the exchanges between Booth and Brennan. He seems so nervous and tentative, like he's unsure of what to say to her, while she seems to be trying hard not to step in a landmine even as she's still his partner, through and through. I wanted to analyze what might have happened to leave things so unsteady. I also wanted to echo that sweet moment from season one...  
_**

**_What episodes have we not gone to yet that you'd like to see? Review and let me know what you're hoping for! It'll probably be two weeks until we meet again.  
_**

**_To keep you busy, there's my brand spanking-new story, _The Hand You're Dealt_. Loosely based on the film _Shuffle,_ Covalent Bond sums it up best: it's the best elements of _The Mixed Tape_ with a mystery story. _  
**

**_You can also look forward to an update very soon for _The Ring In The Reflecting Pool_, my new case story. You've been asking about the identity of the body; that answer is coming soon!_**


	16. Sweet Child O' Mine

_**AN: So, um... hi.  
**_

_**Did you know handling three jobs and the home stretch of a wedding apparently does not allow for time for writing? I know now. I'm still playing catch-up in so many areas and slowly getting back into writing my various stories. I hope by the end of June to be back in full bi-weekly update mode for this story. Fingers crossed.**_

_**I've wanted to write this chapter for a very, very long time, but it never was quite ready to be told. It's ready now, and I hope you enjoy it.**_

_**Tag To: Mayhem On A Cross  
**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Bones, alas, nor do I own Guns N' Roses' classic, "Sweet Child O' Mine". Dialogue is used for context; no infringement intended.**_

* * *

**Sweet Child O' Mine (Guns N' Roses)**

He chuckles to himself as he drops the needle on the record and the glam rock begins to fill his apartment. _Noddy Comet!_ If someone had told him years ago, back when he'd prowled the bargain bin of his local record store for hidden gems, that he would not only meet Noddy Comet but work with him, Booth would have laughed hysterically and flipped off the idiot telling such a tall tale.

A far cry from his melodic days, Gordon-Gordon stirs a pot of something utterly fantastic on the stove while he riffs air guitar. Bones smiles at him as she sips her wine and he shows off the sleeve, including the picture of the shrink-turned-chef.

"This is you singing?" Bones asks him in disbelief.

"Well yeah, my alter ego, I suppose you might say," Gordon-Gordon replies. "A bisexual spaceman with a taste for six-inch platform shoes, spandex, glitter and an exhibitionist's disdain for underclothing."

As much as Booth likes the guy, any line of discussion involving him going commando needs to be squelched, so he raises a glass in a toast. "Well, here's to Gordon-Gordon. Without him, we would not have been able to solve the murder."

His partner surprisingly concurs. "I hate to admit it, but it's true. To Gordon-Gordon."

And yet, the doctor is somehow unhappy with what should be a warm gesture. His spoon is roughly abandoned on the stove as he spins around. Booth knows the look in his eyes and it doesn't bode well. _Shrinking is about to occur_. The needle is lifted harshly and the music is no more.

"Stop, stop please. Look, this is exactly what Sweets wanted. I'm too good a psychiatrist ever to leave, et cetera. Well, no. Just put your glasses down, would you? Please?"

They both comply, exchanging a concerned look. Bones has caught on to Booth's fears and is somewhat uncomfortable. No matter what respect she might afford the man, she still hates soft sciences.

"Might I offer you a word of advice regarding young Dr. Sweets?"

"Might we try to stop you?" Booth counters.

"Why do we need advice about Sweets?" Bones asks.

"We don't. Sweets is just fine," he insists, grinning slickly at her in a desperate attempt to cut off the discussion.

Unfortunately, Gordon's not having it. "He most definitely is _not_ fine! I've read his book."

"What, does he say something mean about us?"

Trust Bones to immediately assume it's about her. Booth almost wants to tease her, but the doctor continues and it fast becomes clear that this springs from her prior discovery of the scars upon the kid's back. Gordon, it seems, believes the kid has adopted them as some sort of pseudo-family – like a "baby duck", as his partner relates. To Booth, it's like having a whiny childish version of Jared to shove away, but the words "adoptive parents" and "find his place in the world" resonate deeply with the woman across the table. For her, the Jeffersonian is not only where she's found her own place – a family – but it's also where she strives to make a place for others. Zack Addy comes to mind as she turns to him and asks a layered question.

"We can find a permanent place for him. Right?"

Booth would rather have simultaneous tooth aches in both his upper and lower jaw, but he also remembers her pain months prior after a visit with Zack. He'd said something about questioning whether he truly "belonged" anymore after his time in Iraq.

He's already defeated and he knows it. With a groan, he elaborates on what "making a place" will mean in Gordon-Gordon speak.

"Gordon-Gordon is going to want us to divulge or share or bond or something awful," he complains.

The doctor grins, confirming his suspicions, before raising his hands in the typical manner of a guilty man caught red-handed. "Look, perhaps you might just show the lad that he's not the only one with scars on his back."

"But he is." Booth fights back a laugh as Bones quickly understands her error. "Too literal?"

There's talk of food, of it "not keeping" and Booth grimaces as he reaches for his keys. The command is clear between the lines: find Sweets and adopt him as your obnoxious, questioning child. With vague comments about hunting to Bones, he leads her out of the apartment and to the Sequoia.

"Booth, I don't understand what we're doing. There's wine on the table that I'm quite enjoying."

"It'll keep until we get back," he replies, drumming his fingers lightly upon the steering wheel. "And we're going to want it."

"So we're supposed to share scars, but not real ones? The scars are a metaphor?"

He hears trepidation in her voice and darts a glance in her direction. "Yeah, they are. Bones, you don't have to do anything, alright? Don't make yourself uncomfortable on Gordon-Gordon's whim."

"I'm not uncomfortable," she lies. "I'm clarifying the parameters of the task."

"Look, we have too much food and can't save it for leftovers. We're going to invite Sweets for dinner. That's family-ish, right?"

_It better be enough, because I'm not sharing war stories or giving that kid any fodder whatsoever to make up bullshit about my traumatized blah blah blah_, he adds silently.

"I'm fairly certain that to bond, we need to share a story. You've always told me that sharing with people makes them share in return. It's a form of social reciprocity, one that builds bonds."

"Bones – "

"Should we practice these stories?"

His hand reaches over to grasp hers and he's stunned to discover she's trembling. "Bones, relax. Don't hurt yourself for Sweets or Gordon or anyone else. Your life is private. It's yours to share."

She nods and remains silent for the remainder of the drive, her head bowed slightly and brow furrowed in thought. The only insight into her heart is the way she clings to his hand, refusing to release it even as he moves to shift gears. Hers follows his, resting upon it. There's a strange symmetry to it and he doesn't know quite how to feel about it. Grateful, perhaps, that she's open about her need for support. Relieved that she's just as scared as he is.

Fear or no, she charges ahead of him once they reach the Hoover, her hand the first on the knob as she enters the office and calls out to the kid.

"Sweets?" As he glances up from his desk, she quietly adds, "Hi."

"What are you doing here?"

Booth jumps in, eager to abort any scar-showing mission of his partner's. "Well, uh, Gordon-Gordon is, uh, making dinner for us at my place, family-style." He pats himself on the back for the use of the word _family_. "And, um, you're invited."

Mercifully, the shrink seems to perceive Booth's increasing discomfort with this damn office and its damn purpose and endless sessions without point, and he offers an out.

"Thank you, but I've actually got a lot of work here..."

Booth spins, ready to run out the door with a quick _Too bad, so sad_ until his partner chimes in, driving a dagger into his heart.

"My foster parents locked me in the trunk of a car for two days when I broke a dish. I was a very clumsy child."

Sweets is fascinated and caring; this, Booth sees as his eyes dart wildly between his partner and the kid. But him? He's feeling his stomach begin to turn violently at the thought of a teenaged Temperance Brennan, abandoned by her entire family, stuffed inside the trunk of a car like... what? Garbage? For a dish?

"They warned me it would happen," she continues, her clinical recitation beginning to slip into emotional narrative. "But the water was so hot, and the... soap was so slippery."

She looks to him, tears brimming to the surface, and as much as his mind screams to hold her, to comfort her, he is paralyzed. Powerless. Because this is a scar, and scars can't be undone. He can't make this right for her.

"I still don't think it was fair, even though they gave me fair warning," she protests, as if pleading her case to a judge. "The water was so hot..."

Her voice breaks and he dies inside, because he can think of his own trunk, so to speak, and it's a hell he would never wish on anyone besides maybe his father, but definitely not her. The voices, echoes of darker times in his youth, begin to whisper and he stupidly cannot move, cannot save her from her own voices and memories.

"No, it wasn't fair at all," Sweets tells her gently. "It wasn't your fault."

_No more. _He can't see her hurting this way, can't bear to think of someone _torturing her this way_ and suddenly, he's remembering the Gravedigger and another car and _I'm putting a goddamn stop to this, right now._

"Bones, what are you doing?" he asks, handing her his handkerchief from his pocket.

_Why are you hurting yourself like this?_

"You said that 'scars on the back' was a metaphor," she replies. "Isn't that why we're here? To metaphorically compare scars?"

A dish crashes in distant memory and the right side of his head aches. Body memory. _Keep it together, Seeley. _

"I came to bring Sweets back to my place for dinner. That's all."

She accepts the cotton square and dabs at her eyes as Booth reluctantly faces Sweets. He's clearly uncomfortable with her statement, understanding exactly what it means. And if he's anything like Booth, the last thing in the world that he wants is people noticing them – thinking about their origin.

"Scars on the back?" he asks, upset.

"I saw them, Sweets," she admits.

"So..." He takes a deep breath and sighs as he rises and approaches them. "What? You decided to just share something from your past?" Bones nods and he continues. "That is so unlike you."

_Ain't that the truth!_ Booth thinks.

"I still hate psychology," she adds, likely realizing that she hasn't reminded Sweets of this in at least 24 hours. "Okay, your turn. _Go_. "

And she looks to Booth expectantly.

"I came here to bring Sweets back to my place for dinner, _that's all_," he deflects emphatically.

In his head, his father tells him what a worthless piece of shit he is and his heart begins to race. She tilts her head at him, beckons forth some sort of tribute, and he knows he's not getting out of here without revealing _something_. She'll never forgive him for it. Hell, he's the one that's often said that giving personal information creates the expectation of information in return. The memories are rapid-fire but he quickly zeroes in on music, on Noddy Comet and Social Distortion and The Clash being cranked higher to erase the memory of the first gun he'd ever held and –

"Okay, if it wasn't for my grandfather, I probably would have killed myself when I was a kid." He spins to face Sweets and stresses, "That's all I'm going to say on the subject matter. Understand?"

His eyes meet hers anew and he feels that loving heart of hers break too, an echo of his own minutes ago. "Are you okay, Bones?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Here."

She thrusts his handkerchief, messily folded, back into his pocket, her hand lingering to press against his heart. Something about her touch sends a shockwave through him and he startles slightly, struggling to comprehend it. For a moment, it's all he can do to not pull her against him, feel her breathing and _alive_ and while this isn't anything new to struggle with, the difference lies in her sad eyes as they stare into his own. His fingers graze his chest as he laments the loss of contact.

_It's not possible_, he tells himself firmly. _You're both very, very raw right now_. They're partners and he has always felt compelled to save and protect her. But her eyes...

It's a blur: something about him agreeing to come and arguing over stew or _casoulet_ or whatever it's called, and a long drive in the Sequoia in near silence (except for a discussion of whether Sweets would be a mallard or a tufted duck) and then, there is food and wine. There is also Gordon-Gordon presiding over them like a proud papa, much to Booth's annoyance. And yes, the stew is amazing and the wine exceptional, and while yes, a few jokes are shared, it's a difficult night.

In his head, he can see her limbs folded like sick origami, rammed into the trunk of a car for _forty-eight goddamn hours_.

A dish bangs loudly into the sink and he startles, waiting for one to sail by his skull. Bones eyes him with scientific curiosity and he quickly shrugs and forces a half-smile.

"One glass too many?" he jokes weakly.

She doesn't reply, but her wine glass is trembling in her right hand. Her pupils are dilated. It occurs to him then that maybe she's lost in her own memories, waiting for her own dish to shatter.

"That should be the last of them!" Sweets announces, returning to the living room. "Thank you so much for dinner," he adds, looking to Gordon. "It's apparent now why you've been accepted for study."

"How very kind of you, Dr. Sweets! I do believe it is time for me to take my leave of you all. I'm not as young as I used to be. A ride home?"

Sweets nods gratefully. "That would be awesome. Dr. Brennan, did you need a ride?"

She shakes her head and smiles as she rises to her feet. "I'm taking a cab to meet Angela shortly."

"_She's got a smile that it seems to me  
Reminds me of childhood memories  
Where everything  
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky  
Now and then when I see her face  
She takes me away to that  
special place  
And if I stared too long  
I'd probably break down and cry_

_Sweet child o' mine_  
_Sweet love of mine..."_

_Huh?_ This is the first he's heard of this meeting and Booth finds himself searching for desperate reasons not to let her go, many of which involve uncomfortably laying himself bare. She embraces Gordon-Gordon and thanks him quietly before nodding to Sweets. The kid is beaming as he looks to her, then Booth. Booth forces himself to his shaky feet and takes the chef-shrink's hand. He leans forward, whispering in Booth's ear.

"She wants to hide. Don't let her."

Booth nods, already cognizant of it. It's always been her way. Compartmentalizing is a clinical term for the eloquent structures she creates within her heart and mind, dividing the space further and further until in any moment, on any day, she is only thinking of one minute detail, one imperfection in one bone. She's taking her metaphorical measurements and erecting walls to divide and conquer and he has to stop her, if only for selfish reasons.

He needs to know that she is truly going to be okay.

He locks the door behind the psychology brigade and returns to the couch, where he notes that she's poured them both a glass of scotch. He looks at her askance and she shrugs.

"I worried Sweets would analyze us if we switched to hard liquor."

"He's kinda annoying like that," Booth replies.

They knock back the glasses in synchronized fashion, each shuddering slightly at the onslaught of bitter burning. She refills both glasses with an unspoken understanding.

"Where are you meeting Angela?"

She pauses before the sip she's intending, smirking. "I'm not. I assumed Sweets would have much to say if I informed him that I planned to remain with you for some time."

He chuckles. "Good call."

Her voice softens as she averts her eyes. "That's okay, isn't it? If I stay?" He tries to reassure her but she begins to ramble now. "Because I don't want to be a nuisance, but I'm feeling uncomfortable and while Angela is vaguely aware of my past, she is prone to crying and wanting to talk it through. And I don't want to talk it through."

"Bones, it's okay - "

"That's what angers me about psychology," she mutters before taking a sip of scotch. "Talking. Like that will truly help. It can't undo past events. It can't justify them, nor explain them adequately. I'm perfectly rational and objective. I can process my own experiences and move forward."

He isn't sure who she's trying to convince, but she's not succeeding with either of them, going by the fresh tears sliding down her cheeks. Gulping his own scotch – _liquid courage?_ – he moves to sit beside her. As his arm slips around her shoulders, she instinctively leans into him.

"We don't need to talk about anything," he whispers. "You don't need to tell me about anything you don't want to, alright?"

A soft sigh, an affirmation. Relief. He pulls at the ethers, looking for a straw to clasp, and stumbles upon an idea. He'll help her. He'll try to.

"Hey, did I ever tell you about the time Jared and I decided to build a treehouse?"

"No, you haven't. You built one for Parker?"

"No, ourselves. When we were teenagers." Booth chuckles at the ridiculousness of it.

"Did Pops help you?"

"Nope, and that's probably why the fire trucks ended up at the house."

"_She's got eyes of the bluest skies  
As if they thought of rain  
I hate to look into those eyes  
And see an ounce of pain..."_

She pulls back slightly, her eyes twinkling with amusement. They remind him of the way sunlight dances along a lake during midday, tiny diamonds beckoning an athletic young boy forward along a pier until he is up, up, up and cannon-balling into the cool depths.

"Fire trucks? Booth, what on earth did you do?"

He smiles. "Jared and I got a little drunk while Pops was away for a weekend with his fishing buddies. We were talking about all the shit we'd wished we had as kids, when Jared reminds me of how we'd wanted a treehouse. Stupid me says, 'Hey, look at all the lumber out back leftover from the deck we built Pops!' Next thing you know, he and I are trying to build a damn treehouse in the blistering August sun, hammering and sawing and drinking more, of course. I'm alright with manual labour, but we were not remotely qualified to do this."

"How did the fire trucks get involved?" she asks.

"Soldering iron accident. Jared. Something about welding on a base for a pirate flag? He's an idiot. The fire was out before they arrived, but Jared was stuck up the tree at that point, so the ladders were extended and the cops arrested us for underage drinking. Pops was not amused."

Bones laughs heartily. "I imagine not!"

"It was still a good day, though. Jared and I... You know. But that day was a good one."

He smiles to himself, thinking of the way they'd sang along to the radio, riffing off handsaws and turning hammers into microphones. Even in the jail cell, they'd had a few laughs, singing "Jailhouse Rock" and a little "Folsom Prison Blues", courtesy of Pops' love of Johnny Cash.

She shifts her legs, stretching out her ankles along the floor, and maybe it's the booze or maybe it's the heavy weight of the night's revelations paling it by comparison, but either way, he pulls her onto his lap and lifts her legs to sprawl along the couch. Her breath hitches briefly at first, but she settles quickly, leaning against his shoulder. He has scars of his own, and her auburn waves are resting upon the only one he doesn't regret: the one that saved her life.

"Tell me another story," she whispers. "A happy one."

"_Her hair reminds me  
of a warm safe place  
Where as a child I'd hide  
And pray for the thunder  
And the rain  
To quietly pass me by_

_Sweet child o' mine_  
_Sweet love of mine..."_

His hand smooths her hair absently as he searches his mind for another moment of happiness. A flicker of light outside heralds a thunderstorm and he remembers another good time, another day not poisoned by the sins of a father – his or his son's.

"Parker's always loved thunderstorms," he tells her. "Most babies are terrified of them. Loud bangs, the heavy rain falling... Not Parker. I was home on leave two weeks after he was born for a night and a thunderstorm rolled in. Rebecca was exhausted, so I headed into his room, hoping I could soothe him before he began to cry and woke her again. But that boy..." He chuckles softly. "He was mesmerized."

"Could he even see far enough at that stage of development?"

"Bones, he could definitely hear the rain. And when I picked him up and walked him to the window, he beamed at the flashes of lightning. Every time thunder cracked, his mouth fell into this wide 'O' shape, but there was no fear. Just awe."

"He had you. He didn't have to be afraid," she whispers.

"You have me, Bones," he murmurs.

"It rained the first night," she blurts out. "The trunk leaked."

He pulls her against him tightly, wincing at the mental image. "Bones, I'm so sorry."

"I was thirsty. The rain was very fortunate," she continues hoarsely. "I was able to catch some in a plastic candy container from my pocket."

"You don't have to tell me – "

"I have to," she insists, glancing up at him. "Or I won't sleep. I have to..."

"Let me help you, Bones," he pleads. "Tell me. I'll do anything."

And he will. He'll move heaven and earth tonight for her. He'll hunt down the foster parents responsible and destroy them with his bare hands, shove them in the trunk of a car. Anything she needs, it's hers. She burrows into his shirt, hands fisting in the fabric.

"After the Gravedigger... I couldn't sleep..."

He knows. He stayed with her that first night out of a selfish need to know she was safe. He stayed the second night because of her terrifying nightmares on the first. He stayed the third and fourth nights out of a silent agreement, one ended when she managed on that fourth night to sleep soundly.

The fourth night was the one where she'd fallen asleep in his arms. Being with Cam, he had refused to consider the meaning of it.

"Stay the night, Bones. I probably won't sleep well either," he confesses.

"Thank you."

Two half-full glasses of scotch remain untouched as they remain in this half-embrace full of loaded questions. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her conditioner – something organic, he's certain, reminding him of honey and vanilla – and it's all he can do not to shudder from the pleasure it shouldn't give him. This is his partner, his best friend in the world. His confidante and conscience. And yet, the voices in his head are looming larger and it would be so easy to lose himself in her, in that kiss of hers that haunts him years later. It's impossible not to wonder through the haze of alcohol and pain: if one kiss kicked his gambling addiction's ass, what healing could she do with her body pressed against his beneath the sheets? And what does it say about him that he's even thinking about her this way?

_This is wrong. This is drunken lust._

But is it? The thought of sex is secondary. It's the intimacy – the safety of her embrace – that he's really craving. His own recent brush with death is surely a factor. His own nightmares are awaiting him. Is it wrong to want peace?

Fuck it. They need sleep. They deserve sleep.

She's already slipping away into dreamland when he lightly nudges her. She nods in understanding and follows him to the bedroom, where he loses his pants because at this point, she's seen him in boxers before and the scotch has pushed him beyond modesty. He tosses her a t-shirt and drawstring sweats from a drawer and moves to leave her, but she blocks his exit.

"Don't leave me alone in the dark," she whispers.

"Bones...I – "

"Just turn away, Booth. Please?"

Anything for her. It's how he finds himself standing three feet away, listening to the belt hit the floor and the teeth of the zipper slowly pulling apart, inch by inch, before her dress hits the ground with an unceremonious _plop_. She moves to reach for the shirt and pants and he _knows_ he shouldn't look, _knows_ it's terrible, but his eyes can't close fast enough and there is a hint of supple breast and black lace before he can stop himself. He swallows hard and pleads for self-control while she tugs on his clothes _and is there anything sexier in the world than a woman wearing your clothes_?

"I'm decent," she tells him.

He, on the other hand, is fighting a hard-on threatening to greet her, which is why he slides beneath the heavy covers on the bed before daring to look her in the eye. She joins him without hesitation, stretching out on her side to face him. Like a tortured night two years prior, she extends a hand towards him and their fingers lace together in solidarity.

"Booth?"

"Hmm?"

"How would you have done it?"

Her voice is scarcely audible, but it's a sledgehammer to his skull. _How would you have killed yourself?_ She doesn't believe in psychology, but it would have a lot to say about her question. He sighs, mulling whether to reply or to lie and say no, he didn't have a plan, and no, he didn't have a date or time picked out.

"Bones, do you really want to know?"

"I... I feel as though I need to. I'm sorry. It's invasive of me. Never mind – "

"A gun. My father's gun," he tells her, his voice a raspy husk of its usual self. "I was going to do it on his birthday, I guess to spite him... I don't know..."

"Pops found out?" she guesses.

"Not quite. Jared suspected something and it was the last straw... a wake-up call that he would never change. Pops took custody of us the day before his birthday."

He sighs, pressing his eyes shut as the image of the cops dragging away his drunk father replays in crystal clarity. Jared crying, blaming himself for ruining the family. Booth grimacing as the gun is found in his room while Pops cleans house.

"_Nothing is worth spitting in the face of God, Shrimp! No matter how bad life gets, there's always a reason to fight through it_."

"I'm grateful for Pops," she tells him.

"Me too."

The rain continues to fall, _rat-tat-tat_ on the windowpane. With a sleepy sigh, she curls against his side, pressing their clasped hands to her heart. His left arm slides beneath her neck and around her and he is enveloped in her now. A safety blanket. Home.

He buries his face into her hair once more, hiding from his confused heart and its fevered wants and equally frantic fears. This keeps happening, this nocturnal co-dependence they share. It's not normal, but it feels more right than anything in his entire life, aside from Parker's birth. And yet, it's a toe in the sand, erasing lines not meant to be ignored. Danger. Caution. But she is suddenly so small, so fragile and he is shrinking and slipping into the darkness of a battered child's heart and none of it – propriety, sanity, FBI regulations – matters.

Tomorrow. He'll figure it out tomorrow. Tonight, they're just two screwed up children seeking salve for old wounds.

Tonight, there's only Temperance and Seeley.

"_Where do we go?  
Where do we go now?  
Where do we go, sweet child o' mine?"_

* * *

**_AN: And then we all needed a hug. _**

**_My original outline is pretty long for this one, but I somehow feel it could be shorter. If there's a particular episode or moment you want me to explore in this story, speak now. I'm likely going to cut a few chapters from the outline. Knowing what moments you'd really like to dig into will shape my choices._**

**_I am going to do my damndest to update The Ring In The Reflecting Pool soon. I'm hoping to write ahead a couple chapters and then begin posting once more. The Hand You're Dealt is also coming again soon. _**

**_Reviews are love and that box is so handy. Come say hi and badger me into never taking a hiatus again (ha)._**


End file.
